


we've really gotta stop meeting like this

by badlywrittenbfu (ghoultown), ghoultown



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Chronological, Coroner Shane Madej, Lots of Angst, Lots of dialogue, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Violence, Murder, Murderous Ryan Bergara, POV-type beat, Pining, Pining to a ridiculous degree, Probably very long, References to Depression, Ryan Bergara In Love, Ryan Bergara Loves Shane Madej, Ryan Bergara is unstable, Suspense, Trigger Warnings, bit of fun, happy endings are overrated, lots of one liners, mentions of gore?, no happy ending, not really a serial killer but, so sorry about this, tw: death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-05-12 04:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19222075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghoultown/pseuds/badlywrittenbfu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghoultown/pseuds/ghoultown
Summary: Shane is asleep when the first body is found. And Ryan is very much awake.Roughly 8 consecutive days of Shane and his best friend Ryan trying to navigate their individual issues. For example, Shane is lonely and has no passion in his work, and Ryan kills people.





	1. [Ryan.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oKAY. i know. i knowwww i keep starting new stories without finishing old ones. but i'm neck deep in writer's block and i've been watching barry on hbo and this is what happens. i hope you're ready for a long ride.
> 
> go ahead and subscribe if you want updates to this! they'll be sporadic but i'm going to try and finish this one story as soon as possible!

Ryan paces. He pauses only to look again, covering his mouth with his hand. His blurry eyes try to survey what’s going on, but he can’t seem to focus on any one thing that’s in front of him. He tries not to.

His ears mistake the heavy drops of rain for footsteps. It’s difficult to keep his attention on the list of _Things to Do Next_ when he has to search for silhouettes. The little light from miscellaneous city sources gives Ryan brief glimpses into a few immediate consequences of his actions. Every time a car passes by with their brights on, he sees the already dark, wet pavement shine vaguely red. He holds his hands out under the rain spout, letting it clean the backs of his hands, his palms, his forearms. He knows he’ll have to clean under his nails and, for all he knows, burn his clothes.

Ryan also knows there’s a clock, somewhere, counting down. It started about ten minutes ago, and he knows it’s going to end soon. It’ll sound, loud and shrill, and it will lead the police right to him. Wherever he will be.

He’s already messed up. He realizes this too late. He tries to clean it up - takes the wallet, takes the ID cards, takes the lanyard, removes the glasses. He brings it all up to his apartment and tosses it into the trash before stumbling into the bathroom, longing for a hot shower to thaw himself from the frozen rain and the shock of the night's events.

Ryan thinks of _Things to Do Next._ He comes up empty. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know what it is about ryan being a stone cold killa that gets me, but it always does.


	2. [Day One: Shane.]

Shane is asleep when the first body is found.

His room is small because his place is small. The window is open. The sheets on the other side of the bed are cleanly tucked, sharp. Shane’s completely buried in blankets, the crown of his head is visible, hair still stiff with product that he couldn’t care to wash out the night before.

He’s been leaving the television on while he sleeps these days. He tells his mother it keeps him grounded, enough to close his eyes and take a break. _BREAKING NEWS AT 6_ flashes onto the screen. The sound is muted, captions stuttering and racing to catch up with the news anchor’s lips. While the words across the lower half of the screen mention the local town festival, a blurry picture of crime scene tape appears in the top right corner of the screen.

When the phone rings, Shane still doesn’t know about it. He slept well, slept _hard_ , just coming off a streak of all-nighter form runs to catch up with his deadlines. His dreams weren’t as bloody as he had expected, though he figured he had gotten some sort of closure alongside the family of the departed. He hated investigations, but he also couldn’t bear to be one of _those_ guys, the ones who leave mourning people in the dark because they want to avoid the paperwork. No, he’d never be one of those guys.

He feels around blindly, eyes still locked tight, bringing his cold phone back into his warm comforter-cave. The screen practically hisses as it touches his ear, “Hello?”

“ _So sorry to wake you back up, but we need you down here._ ”

“Where’s here?” Shane murmurs, peering over the blankets to locate his glasses. He reaches for them with great difficulty, “Office?”

“ _No. The, uh, lot by the co-op, actually. We’ve got another homicide, I’d say.”_

“Well,” Shane says. He pushes himself up with a groan, his muscles reluctant to come out of hibernation so soon. “Fuck.”

“ _Yep._ ” There’s a quiet chuckle.

“Is the brawn there?”

“ _Yeah, they were pretty excited to come down. Our real problem is the news outlets._ ”

Shane rubs his eye with his fingertips before squinting at the television. He slips his glasses onto his face. He watches for a moment. “Yeah, I can see that.” He shakes his head and stands. Every bone in his body cracks. “That was a, what, ten minute segment on a murder, and they have no name, no suspects? What’s the point?”

“ _Always fun to stretch their legs. Send the dogs out._ ”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Shane says. He hangs up the phone.

He slept in his work clothes, which makes getting ready for the day much easier than normal. His clearance ID is tangled around his neck already, his wallet and keys strewn in the middle of the floor where he’d blindly emptied his pants pockets on the way to his bed roughly seven hours earlier. A groan falls from Shane’s lips as he bends down to scoop them up, tucking them back into their places. He shrugs the blue jacket over his shoulders. His uniform was a simple one.

Before he leaves the house, he makes sure that he doesn’t smell as bad as he feels.

The scene is surrounded by walls and walls of people. The outer ring is made up of civilians - office workers holding their paper coffee cups who’ve stopped to take a look at commotion before they recede into their steel buildings until lunch. A moat of tired curiosity. Then, there are the children clutching skateboards or bicycle handles, climbing onto each others’ shoulders to get a better look. News station vehicles create a perimeter, staggered so close to each other that Shane has to shimmy through, and the anchors assigned to those vehicles establish a hold on Shane, asking him questions [that he cannot answer, as he’s currently trying to _get to the body_ so that he can answer his own questions]. Finally, he sees the Blue Brawn, the police officers, wide-shoulder to wide-shoulder. They smile when they see him approach, break their chain and allow him to duck under their arms. He smiles back.

He stumbles on the sudden change of terrain - from smooth pavement to broken concrete - over to Drew Jacoby, his assistant coroner for more than a year. He’s wearing his black polo, pressed and steamed, gripping his clipboard so tight Shane worries it might snap.

“How’s the day, then?” Shane asks, swiping the board to look at what they’ve found. “Any takers, yet?”

“I’m alright,” Drew says, moving to peer over Shane’s arm, pointing at the form, “We can’t really identify who it is, yet, because… uh, well. You know..”

“Jesus,” Shane says in a long exhale, flipping through papers and squinting, “Whoever we’re looking for… they’d have to be pretty strong to push through the skull like that. Fuck.”

“We’re currently looking for a weapon, but um.” Drew closes his eyes for a moment. He focuses on Shane’s face in order not to spare a glance to the figure hidden under the stained white sheets. He continues, “I gave a brief glance over the damage. The face is utterly unrecognizable. Officer Stills said he thinks the perpetrator used, like, a cinder block or something to…” he mimics a bashing-in motion with his hands. Shane rolls his eyes and looks back down to the forms with a grimace. “But I couldn’t find any residue from something like that. There’d be _something_ , you know? And where’d they get the block, you know?”

“So… you think someone did this with their hands?” Shane gestures to the sheet, looking at the shorter man with doubt tight across his brow. “Mr. Universe was in town, or something?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t really thorough.” Drew offers a shrug.

“Alright,” Shane says. He lets the papers fall from his fingers to settle back on the board. He tries a smile. “You can head home, I’ll handle it from here.”

“Thanks,” Drew turns to leave. He pauses. “Oh, are you okay? I forgot to ask.”

“I’m great, thanks.” Shane kneels down to grab the black backpack that he and Drew call The Toolbox. He reaches in and grabs his barrier protection - plastic shoe covers and a pair of disposable gloves - along with a pair of safety goggles just in case. Drew is standing over his shoulder. Shane pushes himself up, lifting a leg to pull the plastic bag over a sneaker. “What’s up?”

“Do you think this is a one-time thing?” Drew asks quietly.

“Like... what?” Shane says. He braces his hand on Drew’s shoulder as he pulls the other shoe cover on. “You think… like, this _isn’t_ a one-time thing?”

“I don’t know,” Drew shrugs. “I’m just talking out loud, I guess.”

“That’s good. Keep doing that.” Shane pats his shoulder before retrieving his hand. He struggles to slip the gloves on. “Worry about serial killers _after_ lunch, okay?”

Drew laughs and nods, taking a few steps back. “That’s funny, Shane.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shane says. He offers a hopeful smile before turning his back to the commotion that ensues as Drew approaches the tape. “Funny.”


	3. [Day One: Ryan.]

Ryan can’t sleep. He worries, as the night draws on, that he’ll never be able to sleep again. It’s not raining anymore, but he can still hear it vividly. He can hear the metallic splash of the spout slowly filling the dumpster beside him. It’s almost deafening, the noise of rain in his head. It had been so loud, the rain and the buzz of the city, the racket of death was swallowed almost entirely. The raspy voice pleading and bargaining with him to stop now was nearly lost. Ryan almost wanted to, he remembers. He almost retrieved his hands completely and walked home with a portion of his morality left. He’d never killed anyone before, maybe he didn’t have to now. But the broken man on the ground had already seen Ryan’s face, heard his voice. The man knew his connections. Ryan had seen enough documentaries on the  _ ID Channel _ to know that it was too late for an epiphany. 

Ryan gives up on sleep around six in the morning. He pulls himself up with a quiet groan, grasping for the remote on his bedside table. He lets his legs hang from the side of the mattress. As soon as the television flickers to life, he’s met with another consequence - they’ve found him, already. The woman reports that the janitor of the residency building, coming into work early, had found the body. He winces and turns it off again, throwing the remote down on the hard carpet. The back section snaps out of place, and the batteries thud and roll toward his feet. His head falls heavy. His hands are there to catch it before it falls from his shoulders. The deep breath his lungs attempt is a stuttered one. Now is a better start to the day than any.

There is no present attention paid to the clothes he puts on. His head has taken the passenger seat while his instinct takes the cold steering wheel in its hands. He makes sure that he doesn’t smell like adrenaline and sweat before he leaves the house, key ring tight around his thumb. He checks behind his ears in the mirror by the door, worried there may be some red splotch of a tattoo that implies guilt. He thinks, as he locks the door behind him, that he should go to the lot again - or, he guesses, it’s a crime scene now. But he knows he wouldn’t fit there, he’s never been that curious. Besides, Shane’s probably there already. If he saw him, he may cry. He wouldn’t want to cry. Again.

Ryan wanders outside, stumbling down the concrete steps. He holds a hand in front of his eyes, grimacing. The rain has dried, and the sidewalk is back to being a bright white. It hurts his eyes. Ryan pats the front of his jeans, searching for the sunglasses he knows he’d pocketed the night before. He slips them onto his nose and tries to reorient himself. Eventually, his legs begin to move and his hands grasp a cold handle, a door swings open, and he smells old beer and stale chips. The bell jangles as he lets the door go behind him.

“Hey!” Ryan forces himself back in control as a hand slips into his, pulling him into a tight hug. He stands frozen for a moment. “What are you doing here so early!?”

“I… um,” Ryan embraces back, trying to gather his thoughts. He recognizes the voice. “I walked outside, and it seems that my feet brought me here.”

“Well, you’re always welcome here, you know.” The warm body recedes and Ryan smiles tiredly. He folds his sunglasses on the collar of his shirt. “You look like shit. You need a drink?”

“Bit too early for that, Al,” Ryan says, pushing his hands into his pockets. He watches the stout man slip behind the bar and he follows on the other side, taking his place in the corner. “It’s just safe in here, I guess.”

“Yeah, I hear that.” Allan chuckles and shakes his head. “You know where I’ll be if you need me. Stay as long as you like.”

“Thanks.”

Every time Ryan blinks, another hour passes. 

Ryan bites his nails, the heel of his shoes swinging back into the metal stool leg as he watches the screen above the bar. The news anchors have made a lot of progress in the past few hours, getting closer and closer to the yellow tape. He sees a tall man with his hands in his pockets looking over one of the police officer’s shoulders,  _ CORONER _ etched in yellow across the back of his jacket. Shane’s finally there. Ryan takes a deep breath and presses his palm on his forehead. He might have a fever, he decides. 

“You going to get anything, or are you just going to freeload on our TV?” There’s a deep voice directly in front of him. “You’ve been here since fuckin’ dawn, Al says.”

Ryan jumps, nearly falling from his seat, reaching frantically into his pocket for his wallet. “Shit, sorry, man… can I get some fries? And a Coke?” 

“There’s a McDonalds down the street,” the bartender says. He doesn’t sound particularly angry, but he snatches the money away like he might be. “I’ll put that in for you.”

“Thanks, man.” Ryan sinks lower into his seat, craning his neck to watch, crossing his arms over each other. Shane (or, the blurry figure Ryan  _ knows  _ is Shane) crouches down and peers under the sheet. He’s done that several times during the day. Ryan wishes he could see his face. He wonders if Shane has any idea who might have done this. He’s always seen Shane as a genius. Surely, he would find out. The clock was still ticking. A news anchor steps in the way, brandishing his microphone like a sword, and Ryan immediately loses interest. His eyes stray across the walls full of picture frames and broken neon signs. He hadn’t heard the bell sound, but the place has filled up considerably. He is so tired. The news had put him in a trance. 

The bell rings. He looks over to the door, squinting through the light. 

Shane’s eyes appear to light up as soon as he spots Ryan hunched over at the bar. Ryan meets his eyes and stumbles to stand just before Shane crosses the room and envelops him in a tight embrace. “ _ Ryan _ !”

Ryan melts, allowing Shane to lift him up off the ground. “Hey, man!” As soon as he feels his feet settle back on the ground, he points to the television, confused. Shane’s blurry figure is still visible over the reporter’s shoulder. “Is that  _ not  _ you? I thought you were down there? What the fuck?”

Shane laughs, lowering himself onto a stool. Ryan settles beside him, suddenly very awake. “It was, about an hour ago. They’ve been recycling the same few clips all day, I suppose. You know how they are.”

“Boy, do I.” Ryan doesn’t really understand. But he can vaguely remember hearing Shane complain about the local news the last time they’d seen each other. He can’t remember details. The bartender appears out of nowhere, making Ryan jump out of his skin, tossing a plastic ramekin of fries down on the counter with a loud clatter. Ryan thanks him softly, avoiding eye contact as he pours the soda. 

“I haven’t seen you in years, it feels like.” Shane steals one of his fries and pushes it in his mouth with a smile. “Time flies.”

“Few months, yeah.” Ryan wraps his fingers around the cold glass, pulling it toward him. It leaves a trail of water on the countertop. “Yeah. I saw you on the news, thought about calling. Seemed… um, bad down there.”

Shane takes a long exhale, nodding. His expression is suddenly grim. “Yeah, this is a rough one.” He leans forward. Ryan forgets how to breathe. “I gotta say - “

“Is that a Madej I see?” Allan grabs Shane’s right shoulder and Ryan’s left one. Ryan grasps the edge of the counter to keep from falling backwards. “How are you, son?”

“I’m great, Al. Thanks for asking,” he turns and pats the older man’s back. 

“How’s my boy doing? Not too much of a hassle?” Allan winks and laughs. He’s been a jolly little man since Ryan first met him. “Best behavior?”

Shane nods enthusiastically, “Yes, sir. Drew’s fantastic. He’s done a lot more work and trained much more than a lot of professionals I’ve met. He’s got a lot of promise, though I figure you already know that.”

“That’s my Drew,” Allan says with a smile. “Always on top of things. Always studious.”

Shane smiles. Allan lets his hands fall and he disappears through a door beside them, heading back to his office. Ryan can’t feel his fingers.

“What are you up to, these days?” Shane asks, pointing to Ryan’s glass as if to ask,  _ may I?  _ Ryan shrugs as if to reply,  _ go ahead.  _

Ryan can hear rain. “Oh, nothing.”

Shane laughs into the glass. He hands Ryan his Coke back. Their fingers brush. “Sounds wonderful.”

“Yeah. I guess it does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhhhhhh i'm so excited to keep writing this... hope you're all still out there.


	4. [Day Two: Shane.]

As the coroner of the county, Shane has five distinct jobs to do whenever a body is found in his jurisdiction. None of them are enjoyable - he’s never wanted to  _ have  _ a jurisdiction. None of them make him want to talk to his friends about his job after work at the bar. He does the job anyway. If he weren’t in charge of this, someone else would be. Someone less qualified.

The first of the five is that Shane has to confirm the identity of the deceased persons. He has to find out who they are, and he has to find out if they died through foul play. Any sudden, suspicious, or violent death in the county is immediately reported to him. This is a load of stress immediately placed on his shoulders. From there, he gets the delightful experience of speaking with family members and witnesses… a lovely bunch, often in tears or traumatized. He gets as many details in his interviews, writes them down, and decides if further details are needed. This is one of the worst periods of each case. He has to keep a stony face as he sits on uncomfortable furniture, sitting and writing down the stuttered testimonies of families that are in the process of fragmentation. He can only shake their hand and tell them that he will keep in touch. 

Secondly, he has to go to the scene. He has to look down at the damage and decide if the body can be moved without destroying evidence or contaminating the scene. Shane has to collect personal belongings, bag the evidence, and direct the transportation of the body to the county morgue. Usually, this is not too harsh. Shane’s seen bullet wounds, strangulation scars, he considers himself somewhat immune to the product of violence. But never has he seen someone beaten beyond recognition, as is the case now. 

Shane is in charge of autopsies and establishing the cause of death. Often, the goal of the autopsies is to close investigations quickly. Unqualified coroners often lie, take bribes, or overlook evidence to close things quickly. People often mistake him for an unqualified coroner. Shane has had the misfortune of experiencing family members pushing money into his pockets to keep things quiet. If his doubts persist, which they often do, Shane goes by the victim’s residence. He sends personal items like medicine bottles or magazines to the laboratory for analysis. Going through the belongings of someone after meeting their family is always exhausting. Shane always has to brace himself on a wall in the hallway of the office after all is done. 

In the best case scenario, once he establishes and records formal cause of death, he is in charge of coordinating the return of unclaimed bodies. He works with families on next steps, ties everything up with pretty bows. At this point, he is allowed to show empathy. And he often does. He shakes hands with more emotion, offers his most sincere apologies, returns personal belongings with letters of condolence. 

Finally, the most worrying part of the job, Shane must wait. He has to wait for results on DNA tests, fingerprinting trials. He has to wait for law enforcement to give him the go ahead on  _ several  _ things. He has to wait to see if he’ll be interviewed for the local news. He has to wait for forms to print. He has to wait while people fill out the forms. Shane’s time isn’t as valuable as it used to be - there seems to be so much of it wasted on  _ waiting _ . Waiting for  _ answers.  _

This case is different. Shane knows this all too much, and it makes him worry. 

The identity of the victim from the lot was eventually found through his fingerprints. The body either belonged to Thomas Maitland or Vaughan Simms - and Thomas Maitland hadn’t returned home the night before from work. The fingerprints took 25 hours to process. During those 25 hours, Shane investigated the scene. He’s gone terribly out of order. 

Shane can’t stop thinking about what Drew said yesterday. He worries about what happens next - if there will be more. His job requires him to investigate deaths and bring closure. He has to go out into the community and investigate. He doesn’t want to have any contact with the person who could have done such a horrible thing.

“What are you thinking about?” Drew rolls his chair over to Shane’s desk. He holds an iced coffee in front of Shane’s eyes before setting it on the desk. This catches Shane’s attention. “You’ve been staring at your blank computer screen for an hour, at least.”

“Really?” Shane takes the cup in both of his hands. His posture is terrible, his back aches, but he leans further down. His chest touches the edge of the desk. He finds the straw with his tongue, his eyes falling closed. “Just thinking.”

“Huh.” Drew says, frowning. He searches over Shane’s face. “Did you sleep any, last night?”

Shane nods, but his head falls heavy. His forehead rests on the lid of the cup. It crinkles. “Slept a bit. Not enough for this bullshit, though.”

“Right.” Drew looks over Shane’s shoulder. “Do you want me to go talk to the Maitlands?”

Shane pauses. “Ask Stills to go with you.” Shane is in no shape to be objective with the victim’s family. “Do you have copies of the notes you’ll need? And the forms?”

“Yes, always.” Drew squeezes Shane’s shoulder. “Take it easy today.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Shane stands up and offers a handshake to the shorter man. He figures a grateful hug is inappropriate in the workplace. “Let me know if you need anything. You know how to reach me.”

“Of course!” Drew nods, accepting the shake. He rolls his chair over to his desk to gather all of his things. “This is so exciting.” He stops and looks up to Shane with a grimace. “Not the death part, but like - “

“Yeah, I getcha.” Shane used to be like that. Shiny and excited. “I’m going to head home and get some shut eye for an hour or so. I’ll meet you back here around five.”

“The day ends at five?” Drew stands up straight, arching an eyebrow. 

“Not for us,” Shane smiles. It’s a genuine smile, but a sour one. “I’ve sheltered you enough. It’s about time you get the full experience.”

Drew suddenly looks very concerned. Shane just pats his shoulder before fishing around in his bag for his keys. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's go check in with ryan.............................................................. ha.


	5. [Day Two: Ryan.]

Ryan enters Al’s bar around eleven at night after spending the day in bed.

He had thought, yesterday, that he’d never be normal again. That, now that he’d taken a life, he’d suddenly transform into some malicious person. Maybe some demon recruiter would knock on his door and walk him through what happened next. But, he is surprised to find, he is still himself. He had moped around all day, waiting for some significant change, but nothing ever came.

The initial consequences he’d anticipated are nowhere to be seen and he almost feels that he can go back to his normal routine. Even so, there’s a looming dread that pushes his head down. He hasn’t gotten away with anything, yet. The clock has gone silent, but it still counts down.

His eyes scan over the room. When his focus settles on his usual spot in the corner, he sees two people sitting there. He digs his fingernails into his palms and takes a deep breath, hesitantly walking towards an empty stool in the middle of the bar. The one, small change to his expectation knocks him off his tracks. His mood plummets. This is strike one.

Ryan folds his arms over each other, curling in on himself. Without his back to the wall, he feels particularly vulnerable. He looks up to the television. The news is still on. He figures it will be until this whole thing blows over. And it will blow over. It will have to.

The grumpy bartender from yesterday blocks his view. Ryan pitifully raises his eyes. He looks to be in better spirits. “Hey there, stranger. Nice glasses. What can I do ya for?”

“What… do you have anything that could get me… uh, like, buzzed?” Ryan makes an unintelligible gesture with his hands. “I want to know where I am, but… I don’t wanna… _feel_.”

“What’s your BMI?” He leans on the counter with an arm. Ryan’s eyes flicker down to his name tag. David.

“I don’t know?” Ryan says quietly, unsure as to what that has to do with anything. “Why?”

“I’ll just estimate.” David turns around. The bell on the door clatters behind Ryan. “Sit tight, buddy.”

Ryan does. He slumps impossibly lower in his place. He hopes this gets better, living with himself.

A woman practically falls onto the stool beside Ryan. Ryan looks over at her, concerned and annoyed, but she doesn’t seem to notice him.

“Driiiiink please, David!” She holds her hand up even after David has seen her. Her hand drops onto the counter like dead weight. “Ugh.”

“Sasha, you’re already drunk,” he says without turning around. Sasha’s head falls heavy onto the counter.

Ryan returns his attention to the screen. Some kid is getting interviewed. His name placard on the bottom of the screen reads _Drew Jacoby, Assistant Coroner_. The interview is hours old, the sun so bright it makes the reporter hold her hand over her eyes.

Ryan shakes his head. It’s just Shane’s assistant. He shouldn’t be jealous, but he feels it bubble up in his stomach anyway.

David drops a shot glass in front of Ryan. Ryan stares at it for a long time, pushing his glasses further up on his nose. It’s filled with a hazy brown liquid. He doesn’t know much about alcohol - he’s usually just a _one beer, please_ kind of guy.  

“What’s this?” He points at it.

“Jäger.” David smiles at him faux-sweetly before stepping away to take more orders. Ryan watches him go.

The glass is warm from the dishwasher. Ryan picks it up between his fingers, sitting up a little bit. He brings it to his nose, quickly so that David can’t see him. It smells like a memory, but he can’t put his finger on it. Like medicine and a family reunion. Bitter.

Ryan tips his head back and allows the liquid to fall down his throat. He coughs. David laughs. It tastes sickly sweet, like expired Nyquil and alcohol. Precisely how it smelled but concentrated. It doesn’t burn, but Ryan worries the taste might last forever.

David stands in front of him, hands on his hips, still grinning. “Thoughts?”

“Another, please.” Ryan turns his shot glass upside down and slides it toward David. David raises an eyebrow. Strike two.

“ _God_ ,” Sasha groans, suddenly awake, propping her head up on her hands. Her elbow slips out from under her. She doesn’t seem to notice. “I can’t stand him,” she says to no one in particular. David places the newly-filled shot in front of him.

Ryan stops for a moment. He carefully takes his glass into his hand and tries to focus on the picture of Shane on the television. He bites the inside of his cheek. Maybe she’s talking about someone else.

“I mean... like, you know?“ It takes effort to figure out what she’s saying. “My friend Shan’s grandfather was murdered or s’mthin’ and that… that _dickface_ said it wasn’t horseplay.”

“I think you mean… foul play?” The man beside her is leaning away from her. But she just leans closer.

Ryan welcomes his second shot of Jäger. He only wheezes a little.

“Like, he’s got _one job_. He’s the biggest problem with our… democratic system, or whatever.” She looks back to the screen. Shane’s picture is long gone, but she has more to say. Ryan wishes she would stop. “I read s’mewhere that you don’t even need a degree to be a car owner. He could be the one who killed all those people, right?”

“Coroner, Sasha,” David says, shaking his head. He takes Ryan’s glass. Ryan just watches, his face grim. “The guy’s a coroner, not a fuckin’ car owner.”

“Whatever.” Sasha shakes her head. Her inability to control her actions leads to her doing so for several minutes, swaying. “Maybe someone should, like, kill that guy.”

Ryan slams his hand down on the table. He doesn’t know why. He certainly didn’t mean to. “Can I have another?”

David shrugs, “Sure, buddy.” The glass makes a high pitched noise as Ryan slides it toward him. He can barely see anything beyond what’s in front of him. He thinks he might have overdone it.

“Yeahhh,” Sasha says, nodding as if to solidify the idea. “Someone should _kill_ that guy. Right? Right. See who calls it fuckin’ horse… horseplay _then_. N'then there was that time he took money from the - "

“Go home, Sasha,” David says. He waves her off, “Call a Lyft or something. You can’t stay here like this. I’ll get fired for over-serving.”

“You didn’t serve me shhhhit.” Sasha gets up, wobbling on her feet. She eyes the distance between where she is and where the door is. Eventually she works up the strength to walk. She gets halfway across the room before Ryan stands up.

He knocks the seat back with the force of it. He reaches into his pocket to get his phone. He misses a few times. His dexterity is compromised. He gives up on the act. “I’ll walk her out,” he says quietly, his voice sounding muffled in his own ears. He tries to say it to David, but David is across the bar. When did that happen?

Ryan starts walking. He hears the bell jangle as Sasha stumbles outside. He picks up the pace. His legs aren’t working like they usually do.

With every step he takes, every floor tile he passes, the sound gets louder. The sound of rain. He just barely hears Sasha whimper, “Where am I?” She staggers around the side of the building, trying to find a place to throw up. Ryan follows her.

Strike three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y i k e s.


	6. [Day Three: Shane.]

Shane’s phone rings at 4:31 am on the third morning. 

“Hello?” He murmurs, throwing his arm over his eyes before reaching to the nightstand to turn the lamp on. He allows his eyes to adjust.

_ “This is Officer Bryant Moore calling for Shane Madej.” _

Shane doesn’t like that tone. That apathetic, though clearly disturbed, tone. He smothers a whine as he pushes himself to sit up. One of these days, he’ll sleep. One of these days. He feels around for his glasses, “Speaking.”

_ “I’m here at Allan’s. The bar.” _

Shane refrains from rolling his eyes. He hooks his frames over his ears. “I’m aware it is a bar, yes.”

_ “We got a call from the bartender, uh. David Ramirez. He was taking the trash out when he found another body.” _

“What do you mean?” Shane stands from the bed, pinning the phone between his ear and his shoulder. He bends down to grab his jeans. “What do you mean, another body? How many bodies are at the scene?”

_ “Uh. Just one body. But the cause of death seems to be similar to - “ _

“Leave the cause of death to me,” Shane says sternly. He pulls his shoes on, completely forgoing socks in his tired daze. “Is Mr. Ramirez okay?”

_ “He might be in shock, we aren’t quite sure. But we’re following protocol - “ _

“Great, thank you.” Shane hangs up, rushing out the door. He returns a moment later to grab his keys. And again to get his wallet. 

He arrives behind the bar in six minutes, squinting at the flashing lights. Shane grabs his blue pullover from the back seat before tripping out of the car. He gets tangled in the sleeves of his jacket as he walks, too tired to care. His eyes are hazy, most of which he can fully blame on frustration. The lights from the ambulance are too abrasive for the quiet morning. He gestures to the driver to turn them off. The night settles.

He circles around the back of the vehicle. A large man is leaning against the back bumper, staring blankly ahead as the medic checks his pulse, his pupils, his reflexes. Shane steps into view with a small wave, and the medic nods once before climbing into the back. 

“Hello, Mr. Ramirez,” Shane says, stepping closer. His voice sounds lame even to himself, so he tries to wake himself up a bit. “My name is Shane Madej, I’m the county coroner. I’m here to get some answers and help as best I can. I need to ask you a few questions, and then I’ll pass you off to the men in blue over there and they’ll get you checked out. Make sure you’re all safe. Alright?”

David nods despondently. Shane grabs an orange blanket from the door. He wraps it around David’s shoulders. 

“Firstly,” Shane reaches into his jacket pocket to grab his pad and pen. He clicks the pen, poised to write, “when did you find the body?”

“I don’t know, about twenty minutes ago, I think.”

“Great. You’re doing great.” Shane scribbles down a table and writes  _ 20m  _ in one of the margins. He checks his watch and writes down the time. “And, when you came out here this morning, when you saw the body. Did you touch them, for any reason? To see if they were alive, maybe?”

“No,” David winces, closing his eyes. “I came out here, I saw her there, beside the dumpster and I just… I came inside and I called the police.”

“Good. Almost done. One last question,” Shane looks up from his notes, “You say the body is a her. Do you know the identity of - “

“Her name is Sasha,” David rests his temple on the cold door of the ambulance. He tries to breathe, but his chest shakes. “It’s Sasha Trahan. That’s the… god, that’s the shirt she was wearing last night.”

“Sasha… Trahan…” Shane mumbles as he writes it down. “So, Ms. Trahan was in the bar last night. Can you think of the time she arrived or the time she left? If you can’t, no worries. Just trying to get a picture of what happened.”

“She came in… I wanna say, around eleven?” David squeezes his eyes shut, trying to concentrate. Shane appreciates his effort. “She came in, already wasted. Um. And I didn’t serve her, but I let her hang around for a moment. And then she started getting rowdy and I told her to get a Lyft and head home. That couldn’t have taken more than… like, thirty, forty minutes. Before midnight, for sure.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ramirez. For your time and your patience.” Shane tucks his notebook in his pocket. He puts his hand on David’s shoulder. David looks up at him. “I’m sorry. Really. I can give you some resources to cope, if you need?”

“I think I’ll be okay,” David says. He stares at Shane for a while. Shane retrieves his hand, worried he may have crossed a line. Instead, David continues, “Sasha wasn’t a huge fan of yours, you know.”

“Yeah?” Shane looks over toward the body as if to get clarification. Officer Moore stands with his hands on his hips, keeping a tight perimeter. 

“She was talking some shit about you last night.” David chuckles sadly. “Did she ever meet you?”

“I don’t think so,” Shane scratches the back of his head. Sasha Trahan didn’t ring a bell. Then again, he was quite sleep deprived. “Why?”

“The way she was talking about you,” David pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders, “You’re a lot more.. Uh, chill.”

“Thanks,” Shane says, nearly at a loss for words. He offers a smile. The light from the inside of the ambulance barely illuminates David’s smile in return. “You’re in good hands. And so is she. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks, man.”

Shane steps away, walking up to the edge of the tape and peering over. Officer Moore moves to stand beside him, arms crossed over his chest. He stands in silence for a long while, staring out into the darkness, waiting for Shane to initiate conversation. Shane does not. A gentle pattering sound keeps the silence at bay.

“Is he okay?” Moore says eventually. Shane sighs. “The bartender.”

“He’s not in shock,” Shane says, not looking at him. He unlocks his phone and turns on his flashlight. Drew has the Toolbox, so he can’t enter the tape just yet. “Just a little rattled. Gave me a lot of good information.”

“Oh,” Moore nods. Shane gives him nothing. “That’s good.”

Shane pauses. The pattering gets louder. And louder. He turns to see Drew, holding the black bag, running for dear life. He nearly laughs. If his delirium was even half of a percent higher, he would. Thankfully, he’s just awake enough to know how inappropriate that is. 

“Welcome to the party,” Shane says cynically, holding his arms out to grab the bag. Drew hands it over, panting. “You didn’t have to run, you know.”

“I was falling asleep while walking,” Drew says, covering his mouth to smother a yawn. “Nice glasses. What happened here?”

“I haven’t gone close enough to be sure, but unfortunately, I think you were right,” Shane hands a pair of gloves to Drew, who takes them cautiously. “Moore says the victim’s wounds look similar to the last one.”

Drew frowns, “I didn’t want to be right.”

“Just a testament to how good at this you are.” Shane holds the tape up for Drew to duck under. He does. “Not sure what I’d do without you, bud.”

“Probably be stuck here without the Toolbox.”

“Probably.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh this is wild. i like writing shane as a grumpy, sleep deprived, annoyed monster because i'm a grumpy, sleep deprived, annoyed monster. :)


	7. [Day Three: Ryan]

Ryan dropped his glasses in the  _ stupid  _ alley. 

He realizes this as he watches the nightly six o’clock news, watching all of those people swarm around that small, small space where he’d been hours before. He thinks, completely in jest, how terrible it would be if he had left something in that alley. Something that could identify him. This sends him into a brief panic - he finds his wallet and keys in his jeans pockets, his phone is on the bedside table. He leans toward his nightstand to grab his glasses to check the ID compartment in his wallet, just to make sure, but the table is empty. 

There is an inherent suspense to watching the news when one has stakes in it. At any point, he worries he might see someone yell that they found more evidence, hold up a pair of black readers. He worries Shane would recognize them. Truth be told, Ryan can’t remember one bit of the night after he leaves the bar. He remembers following Sasha down the alley and that, as he walked further into the dark, his legs and arms filled with static. He remembers suddenly waking up, standing naked in his shower with pink, cold water pooling around his feet. 

This is a problem. He isn’t sure if his blackout was because of the alcohol or because of the rage. But he knows that a wallet and a set of keys belonging to one Sasha Trahan are in the plastic trash can under his desk, and he knows he needs to get rid of the library of identification he’s gathered. He kneels and lifts the bag, tying it three times and carrying it with him out the door. 

He drives around the block a few times, the bag rustling under his feet, trying to come to terms with his actions. It’s difficult, but he figures he can get there eventually. He finds himself pulling into the parking lot of an Ace City Hardware store about a block from Allan’s. The yellow tape is visible from where he parks. He drops his guilt into the dumpster, fast-walking back to his car. He falls into the driver seat, rubbing his eyes. It’s all over. No more. He just needs to go home, relax. That’s all he needs. 

He sighs, shifting in his seat, reaching for his keys. Something bright in his periphery catches his eye. Illuminated from the inside by store lights, a giant, peeling sticker on the front window looms over his car, dousing the hood of his car and his face in yellow. It reads  _ CEPHALON HUNTING KNIVES, 70 - 90% OFF! MUST GO! UP TO $100 IN SAVINGS!  _ Ryan fumbles for his wallet, practically falling out of the car. He counts the cash and change he has left. 

Something about that sign calls him toward the store. He has no answer as to why - he is completely done with the violence. Done with the killing. Why would he need a hunting knife? He has no answers. But he enters and beelines to the clearance aisle anyways, picks a few up and tucks them under his arm. Ryan passes a cart with latex gloves. He grabs a box. 

The cashier laughs when he tosses his haul down on the table. She scans the knives, looking at the back of the packaging, “What are these for? You a hunter?” She drops the gloves and knives into a bag with a thud.

Ryan doesn’t answer. He just leafs through his cash. Anything he would say would probably be odd.

“Oookay, your total is fifty, even.” Ryan hands the money over with no hassle. She nods awkwardly, not getting paid nearly enough to deal with this. “Alright, man. Have a good night.”

Ryan nods once. He feels something coming up his throat. With his purchases in hand, he shuffles toward the door, longing for some fresh air. As soon as he feels the rough concrete under his sneakers, he tilts his face to the sky. He feels a drop of water hit in between his eyes, right between his eyebrows. Another joins it, lower, on his cheek. His chin. Rain.

“Hey.” 

Ryan’s eyes fall down toward the ground. David is leaning on a car outside of the store, his hands in his pockets. His shoulders are tense, nearly around his ears. His face is washed with yellow. Ryan grimaces and pretends he doesn’t see him at all. 

He kicks himself into somewhat of a walk. His toes become stuffed with Polyfil. He trips on the uneven pavement. His hand reaches into the cold bag, bringing out one of the knives. He rips into the package with his teeth. He isn’t sure why. He doesn’t feel well. 

“Hey - hey, man, I need to talk to you for a second.” David follows. Ryan ignores him. He’s only a few feet from the car. Ryan keeps his head down, tossing the plastic to the side. He stumbles. He picks up the pace. David runs to block him, putting his hand on his chest. Ryan looks up at him.

“What’s your name?” David asks, panting. Ryan keeps his mouth closed, though he searches David’s face. He looks upset. Manic. “What’s your  _ name _ , man?”

“Why?” Ryan breathes. His tongue is numb. His hair is getting wet, dripping into his eyes. “What’s… what are you doing?” He shakes his head. He feels nauseous. “Did you fuckin’ follow me here?”

“When you walked her out. Did you watch her? Did you stand and wait for her to get into the car, or what?” David clenches Ryan’s shirt in his fist. The handle of the knife warms in Ryan’s palm. He holds it behind his leg. “What happened? I  _ know  _ you know what happened.  _ Someone  _ has to.”

“Get your hand off me, man.” His voice is cold. David’s much bigger than him. 

“ _ You _ saw her last.” His voice is shattered, low in his throat. Nearly unfamiliar. “I just need to know. I need to know. You walked out with her, did you see - “

“David, man, you need to get your hand off me.” Ryan feels the control slowly slip from his fingers. He adjusts his grip. “We can talk… some other time, I just - “

Ryan’s arm moves before he can finish the sentence. Before he can even think to stop himself. David’s head whips to the side and he coughs, covering his mouth with his hand. Ryan’s hand burns. He shakes it off, stepping around David, and continues on his way.

David moves after him, panting, dazed from the hit. “What the  _ fuck _ , man? What the  _ fuck _ !”

Ryan has a hand on the car door when David takes another fistful of the back of his shirt. He begins to pull him backwards. 

Ryan turns on his heel. He takes the cover of the knife off with his teeth. His arm, completely filled with painful static, lurches forward. Something hot gushes over his hand. David’s shoulders block the light. David’s fingers remain tangled in the fabric of Ryan’s shirt, even as his grip slips. Ryan turns his wrist and jerks upward with a grunt. David keels forward, resting his forehead on Ryan’s shoulder, his scream dampered by the rain.

Ryan recedes. Can’t get blood on his clothes. He watches David collapse, too alive and tense to relax into a heap as expected. David retches, grabbing for Ryan’s legs. He whispers something, but Ryan can’t hear him. The blood is in his ears now. 

A sudden wash of awareness floods Ryan’s body. He glances down at himself. The blood on his hand is washing away, and his clothes are mostly unscathed. His fist throbs. 

“Are you okay?”

Ryan looks up. The cashier is peering out of the front door, squinting. She can’t see through the rain and the darkness. She has to yell across the parking lot to be heard. 

“Fine,” Ryan says. 

“What - who’s that?” She lets the door go, stepping out onto the wet sidewalk. “... Are you sure you’re fine, I don’t - “ She reaches into her pocket, turning on her flashlight. Ryan just stares, even as she scans over what she’s looking at. 

A moment of clarity crashes into Ryan:  _ get out of here. You need to go. Go home. Get in the car.  _ The bright light in his face breaks his concentration. The rain stops for a moment. 

“ _ Holy shit _ .” She stops moving. “Oh, my God.”

As if someone has pressed the play button, Ryan scrambles into the car. Rain pelts the windshield. He throws the bag in the passenger seat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He drops his keys a time or two. “Shit.” His headlights flicker on. The cashier is running into the store, phone to her ear. The tires scream as he peels out of the parking lot. She didn’t see his license plate.

He comes to in the stairwell of his apartment complex, two floors up, gripping the railing with one hand and his soggy Ace Hardware bag in the other. His limbs are his limbs, again.

Ryan’s keys clink together as he climbs. The noise echoes through the stairwell. He grips them in his palm, allowing the air to settle. Each step brings a new thought. He’d been seen. She called the police. He left the body there. He isn’t sure if David even died. He works himself into a panic. His shoulder brushes the wall as he walks, pushing all his weight off of his feet. 

When he steps up onto his floor, he sighs in relief. Just a few feet from home. He sorts through his keys to find the one he needs. 

“Hey, Ry?”

Ryan freezes. Shane groans as he pushes himself up from his place on the stairs going up to the roof. His knees pop loudly. He’s still wearing his stupid uniform. 

“Hey,” Ryan says quietly. His grip on his bag tightens. “What’s up?”

“I just... “ Shane shakes his head. He looks exhausted. Ryan frowns, events of the night forgotten. “I know it’s late. Like, super late. I… I need a friend, right now. Can I crash with you? I can take the couch. Or, the floor.”

“No worries.” Ryan tries to hide his bounty behind his legs as he wobbles over to the door. He loses his place in the myriad of keys, so he starts over. Shane just bounces up and down on his toes, more anxious than Ryan has seen in a long while.

“Sorry for jumping on you like this. I probably should’ve called - “

“Don’t be silly,” Ryan says. His voice quivers just a little bit as he pushes the door open. He is suddenly very happy that he took out the trash. “You’re always welcome here. Anytime.”

Ryan moves to walk inside the dark room, but Shane stops him. Ryan feels the weight of two arms around him, tight and secure. Shane sighs into his neck. Ryan drops his bag to embrace him back. He's incredibly cold. He hears the box of gloves clatter. 

“Thanks, Ryan,” Shane says. He raises an eyebrow, pointing at them. A laugh breaks through his lips, “What are those for?”

“Uh, I’m working on a piece for the Maitland,” Ryan says with a shrug. “Some medical study. Figured I'd come prepared.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you still worked at the Maitland,” Shane says with a smile. He turns his back to Ryan, walking further into the room. Ryan slumps against the nearest wall. “Well, if you need any help…”

Ryan flips the light switch up. “I’ll let you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy, am i right? what a mess.


	8. [Day Four: Shane.]

It’s 4:50 in the morning on a Tuesday.

“What do you fucking _mean_ you didn’t _want_ to call me?”

Ryan stirs sugar into his mug, keeping his eyes on the counter. Shane figures this is because he’s being aggressive. He’s just woken up, they both have. The benefits to having a small apartment are not vast, but having a kitchen (where there is coffee) attached to his bedroom is certainly one of them. Ryan had been about to ask if Shane wanted coffee when his phone rang and he, consequently, exploded.

“That’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard in my fucking life.”

Ryan laughs. He brings his coffee up to his mouth.

“It’s my job! It’s my fucking _job_ , Stills. Do any of you get that?” Shane snatches his shoes from where they sit beside the bed. He paws at his shoes until the strings untie themselves. “I don’t want this happening again. I don’t care if it’s late. I am _always_ the first one to the scene save for first responders. Do you hear me? Not Drew. Not random officers. And certainly not the fucking _family._ ”

“They let the family in?” Ryan wonders aloud.

Shane looks at him, eyes wide and angry, and nods once. There is a low-volume drone coming from Shane’s phone. Probably excuses. An angry Shane is a death sentence.

“Fuck,” Ryan says with an agreeing tone.

“I’m coming down there in thirty minutes. Since you’ve all had so much time, maybe all my work will be done for me.” Shane’s phone clicks as he hangs up. He stands, stretching his arms over his head, looking towards Ryan, who is enthralled by his cup.

“Gotta go?” Ryan asks. He looks up through his eyelashes.

“Yeah,” Shane sighs, shoulders sagging. “Everywhere we look, Ryan. Everywhere we look, we find another one.”

“Is it the same guy?” Ryan leans on the counter.

“If it is…” Shane doesn’t finish his sentence. He raises his shoulders, “I don’t know yet. I haven’t been there.”

Ryan smiles. “Let’s hope it’s not, right?”

“Right.” Shane looks around for his jacket. Ryan holds it up. Shane smiles, taking it. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

The tall man steps toward the door, but turns. He doesn’t want to go alone. “Do you want to… do you want to come?”

“... What?” Ryan sets his mug down. “Come with you…?”

“Nevermind.” Shane presses his palms into his eyes. “Nevermind.”

They stutter at each other for a moment, frozen in place.

“I mean! I would. If you had, say, a desk job,” Ryan backpedals. Shane looks terrified. “I’m just… not a fan of, um, dead people.”

“Right, right.” Shane gives a dismissive wave as if to say _oh, me neither_. The door hinges squeak as he pulls on the handle. “I’ll see you around, then.”

The parking lot is swarming with concerned people and handsy news reporters by the time Shane arrives.  The sky is still murky and dark. Police cars block off the main entrance of the hardware store, patches of wet concrete still not dried from the rain that stopped hours ago. Everything is bathed in red and blue, a strobing light display Shane wishes he could avoid.

Shane jumps as knuckles rap on the window. The car door opens. Shane takes a deep breath to stifle whatever scream he has building in his stomach, lulling his head to the side to look up at Officer Moore.

“I just wanna say on behalf of all of us - “

“It’s fine.” Shane stands, placing his hand on Moore’s shoulder. “Where’s Stills?”

“Home,” Moore says sheepishly, seeming to hope that this is the right answer.

“Good.” Shane sees Drew on the phone across the lot. He loses interest in talking with Moore nearly immediately. “Keep the reporters back here.”

Shane can’t keep the anger out of his walk. It pulls him forward before he can keep himself balanced. He wants to be civil and diplomatic - but the kid is twenty years old. If a twenty year old coroner’s assistant is at the scene before the coroner, something is very wrong.

Drew spots him. His face splits into a grin, “Hey, Shane, I’m on the phone with Marge - !“

“I need you to hang up the phone for a moment.” Shane says. Drew blinks, confused, as Shane takes his phone from his hand and ends the call. He slips the phone into his pocket.

“What’s… what’s up? Are you okay?” Drew keeps the smile on his face, though it slowly fades. “Did you rest?”

“Did they call you?” Shane asks. His hands find their place on his own hips. His face is blank.

Drew shakes his head, “What do you mean?”

“Did Officer Stills call you this morning?” He glances between Drew’s eyes, searching for a sign. “Did you receive a call from an officer this morning?”

He frowns. A single nod.

“And did this officer tell you to come down here alone?”

“No.”

Shane hums, his face drawn tight. His position is solid and stern. “What did he tell you to do?”

“To call you, because he couldn’t get through to you,” Drew ducks his head, his shoes suddenly fascinating. A sudden jolt of energy, a rebuttal, shoots up his spine. He stands up straight, as if pulled up by a string. “But you needed rest - “

“I _need_ to do my job.” Shane looks down at him. He is too tired to be merciful, too angry to be subtle. “I understand that you want me to be rested, that’s very sweet. But this is not a job that requires or allows perfect conditions.” The red and blue lights create some sort of distance. Even as Shane watches Drew deflate, he holds his ground. “I will not allow anyone to intercept my responsibility. I am the first one to arrive, always. If officers can’t reach me, they try again.”

Drew’s head bobs up and down humbly.

Shane pats Drew’s shoulder before tugging the stolen phone out of his pocket. He redials Marge, holding the phone to his ear. Drew’s eyebrows draw upwards in confusion. It rings once.

_“Hey, how bad did Madej chew you out?”_

“Hey, Marge. This is Shane Madej,” Shane says. “Always a pleasure.”

There is a long silence. _“...Hello, Shane.”_

“What all do you have?” Shane starts to walk towards where the body was, ducking under the tape. Drew follows blindly. “I’m coming in blind.”

 _“The victim is… a David Ramirez.”_ Shane pauses. He knows that name. Where does he know that name from? _“He has a raised contusion on his lower jaw. It’s only been a few hours since death, I’d peg it around 6 to 7 last night, so I can get back to you with post-mortem bruising if or when it occurs. And he’s been stabbed - “_

“Stabbed?” Shane shakes his head. He looks to Drew, “That’s not usual.”

Drew just shrugs, still overwhelmed. Shane’s blank stare was surely etched into his subconscious.

 _“Yes, stabbed in the stomach. The wound suggests a jagged blade of some sort. Or a serious case of the shakes.”_ There’s a brief noise of rustling. Marge hums, _“Oh! And I think I might know what brand of knife it is.”_

“You think?” Shane looks up at the building, then down to the dark concrete. Amidst the blue and red, there’s a shadow on the ground. “Continue.” Shane holds his hand out to Drew, who hooks the Toolbox over his fingers.

_“In 2013, there was a nationwide recall of a certain hunting knife brand due to a coating of lead on the blades. The shelves were wiped, but there was a surplus that was recently redistributed.”_

“Fuckin’ _lead?_ ” Shane pins the phone between his shoulder and his ear, pulling a glove out of the box. He pulls it over his hand. “How’d that happen?”

_“Who’s to say? Industry is bust. But, I swabbed the wound before cleaning everything up - traces of lead. Almost a lethal amount.”_

Shane walks toward the object on the ground, holding the phone tightly. He bends down, lifting the object with his covered fingers. “The brand’s name is Cephalon.”

_“Yeah! How’d you know?”_

“Just a hunch. Thanks, Marge. Update as you learn.” Shane hangs up, holding the phone towards Drew, who takes it gladly. “Go grab an evidence bag, please.”

Shane sends the plastic package in for fingerprinting. He feels somewhat back in control. He waves Moore off as he pulls out of the lot, bag safely placed in the passenger seat. They’ve got evidence. Finally, evidence. Motion. Progress. One layer of red and blue recedes. The sky clears just slightly. The moon is visible just over the trees.

“Shane, I need to go back to the other scene. At Allan’s.” Drew’s attention is fixed on something in the distance. He squints into the crowd. Over the crowd. Shane tries to see what he’s looking at.

Shane closes his eyes, exasperated. “Why?” He turns. Drew looks determined. “Are you bored by this, or something? We just got evidence, you know. That’s pretty exciting.”

“I’m missing something. I know I’m missing something.” Drew holds his hands out, bargaining. Shane is unimpressed. “Something happened between now and then. David Ramirez was the bartender at Allan’s - “

“Damn, I knew.. I knew I’d heard that name - “

“ - and now he’s just dead. Gone. Less than a mile from the location - I can _see_ where Sasha Trahan was murdered where we’re standing.” Drew points, and Shane follows his finger. He scowls. “Please, Shane. Please. I’ll get out of your hair about it. I’ll be better at this, I just can’t… like, shake this feeling that I’m missing something. You know?”

Shane hooks his fingers under the glove, pulling it off. “We’re not investigating the Sasha Trahan case anymore. That’s passed off to people above us.”

“Please?” Drew laces his fingers together. He looks as though he might drop onto his knees at any moment.

“Fine,” Shane says. He waves a hand, watching him create a path through the crowd. He can apologize later. 


	9. [Day Four: Ryan.]

Ryan creeps across the street to Allan’s around 5:45 am.

The commotion and fuss at the hardware store has given him the perfect opportunity to grab his glasses. _Then_ he’ll be done for good. _Then._

The yellow tape is still present, the crime scene hasn’t been released quite yet, but they’ve clearly given up on it. Maybe Ryan is rationalizing, but he feels entitled to it. They supposedly have a big case on their hands, and they have no police standing guard? No distribution of resources? They’re lucky it’s only Ryan. Anyone else would take advantage of this. He’s not one of _those_ guys.

Ryan steps over the cones, ducks under the tape. He moves forward.

_He couldn’t hear her talking over the rain. She grabbed at his wrists and tried to pull his hands from her neck. She was too drunk. She wasn’t very strong. Her desperation was difficult to watch. So he closed his eyes._

The sun is coming up. He needs to move quickly. The working people were getting ready for the day. They’ll be leaving their homes soon. The concrete is slowly turning bluer and bluer, the clouds distinguishable as the black lifts away.

He knows where he might have dropped them. At least, he thinks he does. He steps over the black-red spots on the sidewalk, surprised they haven’t washed away in the on-off storms, toward the piles of warped cardboard boxes. He remembers how she knocked one of them over as she convulsed. He kneels by them, searching. He presses his cheek to the ground, looking behind them.

“Uh. Sir?”

Ryan frowns, lifting his head from the ground. It’s much lighter, now. He can see that face. He knows that face.

“You know Shane.” He sits back on his ankles, hands resting on his thighs. He knows he’s supposed to be afraid - he understands that he’s been caught in an arguably culpable position. But he also knows that Drew Jacoby is twenty years old. A sense of calm washes over him. Only twenty years old. “I know Shane too.”

Drew changes the subject. “I saw you walk over here. From the apartment complex over there.” Drew gestures back towards Ryan’s building. “What are you doing over here? You know, this is a closed crime scene. You could get in some serious trouble.”

“I dropped my glasses,” Ryan says quietly, bending down to continue looking. “Kind of need those.”

“When?” Drew watches him search, hands in his pockets.

“Pardon?” Ryan shifts the boxes to the side. No dice.

Drew grimaces as they tumble, “When did you, uh. Drop them. Your glasses?”

“Why do you ask?” Ryan directs his attention back to the assistant. For a moment, he fears that Drew might be on his phone, texting Shane or whomever else, telling them he’s got a suspect. Instead, he’s holding a notepad. Ryan exhales. _He's only twenty years old._

“Protocol,” Drew replies. His voice shakes.

“A few days ago. Sunday.” Ryan glances at the sky, searching for the memory. He turns his back to the boxes, looking around. His eyes land on the broken _No Smoking_ sign leaning on the wall. The sun is almost completely awake. He figures it doesn’t really matter. Something shines at him. He reaches for it.

Drew shifts his weight from one foot to the other, “... What time were you here on Sunday?”

Ryan stands up, glasses in hand. “What?”

Drew observes him. His eyes are wide, like he’s trying to put pieces of a puzzle together. It doesn’t seem to be working out. “What time did you drop your glasses, sir?”

“Can’t remember.”

Drew’s head is tilted towards the page, using his hand to bear down on. He circles something. “And what’s your name?”

Ryan scowls. He feels it draw tight over his face. “You think I’m a suspect or something?”

“No, no. Of course not.” Drew tries on a smile, but as his gaze travels down Ryan’s arm, it fails. “What’s that?”

Ryan raises an eyebrow, opening his palm. The lenses are completely drenched in blood. A chill runs down his spine. He attempts to assess the situation.

“I’m going to need to take those. They’re evidence.” Drew slowly slips his pad into his front pocket.

Ryan clenches his jaw, keeping his eyes down. “No, I don’t think they are.”

“I need you to cooperate with me. Please.” Drew’s voice is tremulous. Squeaky. Nervous.

“You’re the coroner’s assistant.” Ryan presses his lips together. “What are you doing here all alone?”

“If you don’t cooperate, I’ll have to, uh, report you.”

This is a problem. “You don’t have my name.” His hand goes numb.

“You said you know Shane, right?” Ryan meets his eyes, finally. Drew closes his notepad. “I imagine if I describe a short, brunette man who wears glasses, he’d probably know who I was talking about. Right?”

Ryan swallows. His throat is dry. He slips his glasses into his back pocket, replacing it with the cold handle of his knife. “Why’d you say that?”

Drew blinks. “What?”

Ryan said he was done. That it was over. But he can’t… let the kid _go_. He knows this. And the lot is getting ever brighter. “Can you come here, for a second?”

The assistant bites the inside of his cheek. Ryan can hear the clock ticking.

“I’ll tell you my name, I just need you to get closer.” Ryan holds his hand out, opening himself, speaking louder to drown out the ticking. “Please, Drew.”

Something about the noise of his own name makes the assistant relax. His walls come down. Drew steps over the cones. He ducks under the tape.

“A little closer.” Ryan moves his fingers, beckoning. His chin trembles as he smiles. He can’t force himself to make it seem genuine. “You’re almost there. I have something really important to tell you.”

Drew’s face is pale. He leans into his steps, heavy, anxious to learn more about the man with the bloody glasses. There is some misplaced trust. Ryan figures it is due to their closeness in age. The streetlamps across the street flicker off.

It’s day, now.

Drew’s chest brushes Ryan’s fingertips, “What do you need to tell me?”

Ryan wraps his fingers into Drew’s polo collar, tugging him close. Drew opens his mouth to yell. Ryan pushes the knife in just above his navel. The yell is swallowed. He cups his palm around the back of Drew’s head, pulling the assistant’s forehead toward his own shoulder. He doesn’t want to see Drew’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

Drew gurgles. He tries to say something, lifts an arm to push away. Ryan shushes him, petting his head.

“My name is, uh, Ryan. Bergara,” Ryan whispers into his hair. He turns the blade. Drew grunts, low and wet in his throat, taking quick and shallow breaths. “I’m twenty eight years old. I used to work at the Maitland, but I got fired. And I got… I got _really_ upset.”

Something hot spills across the back of Ryan’s hand. He sniffs, and drags upwards. The noise is sickening. Drew slumps against him. Ryan doesn’t move.

“I knew where he parked his car, so I followed him and I wanted to just… _talk_ ,” Ryan cradles Drew’s head as he recedes. He crawls backwards, pulling the body along with him. Back into the shadows, back behind the building where the bartender used to take smoke breaks. Where the people on the street can’t see. He collapses against the wall, Drew’s head in his lap. “And then it started… started _raining,_ and … well, I couldn’t just let him… couldn’t just let him _leave,_ right? Not after what he said about Shane, not after what they put on the stupid website about him. So I did something bad, Drew. But I didn’t mean to, you know. It just got too loud, all the… uh, rain… and God, I couldn’t feel my hands. I couldn’t see too well.”

Ryan pulls his shirt over his head, wiping his hands and arms down. His chest feels swollen.

“And I was like… _done_ , you know?” The back of his hand rests against his mouth. His breath is uneven. “And then… the girl in the bar was… and the… poor David, he just wanted to know what happened… and now you.” He brushes Drew’s wet hair back from his clammy forehead. He inhales, closing his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I hope you know I didn’t want to hurt you… but you said you’d tell Shane… and you can’t do that. I don’t know why you even said that, that was kinda… kinda stupid, really. Why’d you say that? Why’d you come closer?”

A phone rings. Loud and shrill. The interruption makes Ryan jump, eyes wide. He leans over and fishes the phone from Drew’s pocket. Blood slowly drips down the screen, clogging the speakers and the charger port. Ryan wipes it away.

It’s Shane.

Ryan lets it ring out, allows time for a voicemail to be recorded. The phone isn’t password protected. It clicks to life.

He lifts the phone to his ear to listen.

_Hey, Drew. It’s Shane. Clearly. Uhhh, just calling to let you know we left the lot. I’m driving by Allan’s, I don’t see you. Hopefully you’re home, resting. Um. Anyway. Sorry for getting on you earlier, but it had to be done. Establishing dominance, or whatever the fuck… yeah. Anyway. God, I’m tired. Oh, and we just interviewed the cashier. She says she can’t access the security footage because the owner has the password and he’s out of town for a few days and isn’t answering his phone. Fuckin’ perfect timing, right? Ha. But we’ll get those soon! And we got a pretty weird description of the guy: short, dark hair… beady eyes? Does that ring a bell? Could be anyone, right? We were looking for the wrong type of guy, I guess. Not Mr. Universe. Just an ordinary Joe... Progress, at last. Well, buddy, call me back when you can. See you around. Be safe._

Ryan pushes himself up. Drew’s skull clatters against the concrete. He tosses Drew’s phone into the trash can nearby. He grabs the notepad and tucks it under his arm.

“Thanks for letting me talk. I feel better.” Ryan grips his wet shirt in his hand. “If it makes you feel any better…you’re the last one. No more. Okay?”

He jogs back across the street around 6:22 am.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now that ryan's got that off his chest - guess he's done, right? ... right?!


	10. [Day Five: Shane.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter. mostly to compensate for the elaborate and heartbreaking nonsense that's about to ensue. 
> 
> also because it's 3 am. :)

Shane paces. He redials. Immediately to voicemail for a second time. Marge is waving him back into the room, but he holds up a finger. 

“Drew, man, I get it… if you’re upset.” He rubs his hand up and down his arm, “But at least text something. You know? You can’t just drop off the face of the earth without giving notice. Call me back. Seriously. I’m worrying about you, bud. Let me know.” 

He runs his hands through his tangled hair. It’s been at least 24 hours since he’s seen the kid. He doesn’t even need to  _ see  _ him. Just a message. Something. Anything. He steps back into the fluorescent light of the examination room. Marge gives him a small smile from where she stands by the cadaver shelves.

“Any news on the Ramirez guy?” She tugs her right glove off by the fingers, pulling her mask around her chin. “That plastic case had some fingerprints on it, right?”

“Yeah, the results were… uh. Well. You know how fingerprinting is.”

“How many points of similarity do they say they need?” Marge grabs a stainless steel tray, bringing it over to the sink. “I _always_ forget how many they like. They don't have a minimum, do they?”

“They always change. Local says nine, state says twelve…” Shane leans on the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “We’ve got about ten possible people that could have touched that package. One of them is the cashier, and I’m confident that she didn’t do that. They’re looking up the backgrounds of the rest. So far, they all either worked at Cephalon or worked at the warehouse the recalled products were stored.”

Marge sucks in a breath through her teeth, turning the faucet. The water clanks and rushes over the tray, loud and metallic, “Yikes. Well, there goes the gold standard, right?”

Shane lets out a rueful laugh, “Right. Like it hasn’t been gone since the Naughts.” He checks his phone again, frowning. “You haven’t heard from Drew, have you?”

“What, no. We’re not, like, buddies or whatever.” She nods her head toward her phone on the counter beside Shane. “We haven’t talked since yesterday. Why? Did something happen?”

Shane groans. Marge takes this as a sign that her full attention is required. She dries her hands on her pants, mimicking Shane’s posture against the sink. 

“I…” Shane crosses his ankles, looking towards the ceiling tiles. A posture of guilt and worry. “I don’t know. I got a little hot-headed at him yesterday.” 

“Did you hit him?”

“Marge.” Shane gives her a look. She rolls her eyes, as if to say  _ it’s fair _ . “No, I just… I don’t know what I said. But he seemed… I don’t know. I tried to be constructive, but I was pretty tired.”

“For all I know of the guy… Drew loves constructive criticism, you know.” She scratches her head, offering a hopeful shrug. “He’s probably just holed up in his place, figuring out how to make it right.”

Shane hums. “Maybe so. Just wish he’d call me back.”

“He will, in time.” She cringes, hearing the Hallmarkian language echo around the room. “Yeah. ‘Course he will.”

“I’m…” He pushes himself to stand, slipping a hand in his pocket. “I’m gonna retrace his steps.” 

“Okay, Nancy Drew.” She laughs, “You’ll just be following him to his house, then.”

“No…” Shane worries at his bottom lip. “He, um. Fuck. He went to Allan’s, to the other… uh, scene.”

“... He  _ what _ ?”

Shane grabs a pair of gloves from the box behind him, his heart beating loud in his ears. “He said… he said he was missing something. But I… I drove by, later, and he wasn’t there.”

“Maybe he went home?” Marge turns back to the sink, her eyebrows drawn together. Her back is tense. “It all happened pretty early, right?”

“Yeah… yeah, it did.” Shane starts pulling one of the gloves over his hand before he gets to the door. “I’ll see you around, Marge.”

“You better not disappear, Madej,” she points after him. He brushes it off, waving a glove over his shoulder. “We’re understaffed as it is. I need you back here. Text me when you’re leaving!”

The door hinges creak before the door slams. The noise echoes, even as he rushes down the hall. 


	11. [Day Five: Ryan.]

Three rounds echo through the alley. They all miss.

He can hear the bottom of his sneakers slapping the pavement as he runs. His arms are pumping, fast as they can go. The footsteps are behind him, louder.

“Stop!”

He hopes Shane knows that he can’t stop. It’s too late. He turns the corner, looking up towards the fire escape, the jilted stairs grasping to the bricks with slipping metal fingers. He could climb those. But Shane has a gun. And if he falls, it’s all over. Shane will see his face, will see the blood, will see the ID card, will see the phone. His fingers are covered in blue latex. The sweat from his palms makes his hands creak in the gloves.

He takes another lap. He runs, faster, ducking into the alley that separates the coffee shop and the convenience store. Only a few feet away from home. From safety. _Then_ it will be over. _Finally._

Three more rounds. No dice.

“Freeze!”

Ryan almost laughs at the absurdity of it all as he rounds the corner, jumping up and grabbing the cold platform with his hands. The fire escape creaks as he scrambles up onto the landing through the absent railing bars, taking off up the stairs. He trips over his feet. He slips the evidence he meant to dispose of into his pocket as he rushes up the final two steps, slipping into his window.

Shane is still on the ground, his arms locked straight out in front of him with shaking fingers clutching the gun, running after a shadow on the pavement.

One more round. He’s out.

Ryan wastes no time. He struggles to get out of the jacket, shoes, and pants, balling them up and stuffing them into a garbage bag. He shoves the bag into his bedroom closet. He hears Shane yell outside. The sirens finally sound from the call Ryan knew Shane made immediately after he was found hunched over the trash can. The hood was blocking Ryan’s face. He ran before Shane could take the safety off his gun.

His phone rings from across the room. He crawls over, taking his time, making sure not to feel too frantic. Shane’s name blinks on the screen. He allows a few seconds to calm his breathing. A few more to appreciate the situation he's gotten himself into.

“Hey, Shane. What’s up?”

 _“Hey, buddy.”_ The sirens are louder in the background. _“Just… uh, calling to let you know that the suspect was seen close to your place.”_

“Oh, man.” Ryan winces at his flat affect. He clears his throat. “You sound out of breath.”

_“Yeah, I was chasing him.”_

“Wow. You’re alright, right?” Ryan crawls over to the window, peering out. Shane is looking up, phone to his ear, squinting. Ryan moves, standing, waving. Shane smiles softly, barely visible.

 _“Yeah, thanks."_ Shane waves back. _“Uh, stay safe. Okay? I have to go over to the other scene, now. Just across the street.”_

Ryan nods. For a few seconds. “Okay. Is… uh, is everything okay?”

 _“Mhmm. Just looking for my… friend.”_ He rubs the back of his neck. Ryan frowns. _“He’s gone a bit… MIA. Since yesterday.”_

“Wow. I hope he’s alright.” Ryan attempts to sound genuine. “If… if you need anything. You know I’m here.”

 _“I know,”_ Shane waves one last time. _“I’ll see you later, Ry.”_

“See ya.” Ryan hears the phone click before closing and locking his window. There’s a sense of finality. He’s done _now._ He has escaped the inevitable consequences. Problems forgotten. Eyes forward. Moving on.

He slips into bed with full intention to rest presently - to stare at the ceiling and think about how lucky he is to have escaped the mess he’d gotten himself into. Perhaps he will come up with a precise plan, an exact set of rules to keep this from happening again. Solidify a future for himself. Watch the credits roll. Instead, he falls asleep. Deep, unwavering slumber for the first time in five days. Relief settles into his bones.

He wakes up hours later. The sun has set, though the faint red and blue flashes still into his windows, illuminating the room. He pulls himself up with a quiet groan, grasping for his glasses on his bedside table. He lets his legs hang from the side of the mattress. The deep breath his lungs attempt is a full one, a secure one.

There is no present attention paid to the clothes he puts on. He moves on instinct, knowing he _has_ to go, has to see if Shane is there. Has to know that everything is finished. His curiosity drags him by the collar, guides his hands with strings to take his phone and keys.

Ryan thinks, as he locks the door behind him, that he shouldn’t go back - no doubt they’ve found Drew. It’s a crime scene now and again. He knows he wouldn’t fit there.

Ryan wanders across the street anyways. Some sort of determination in his stomach propels him forward. The smooth sidewalk turns into rough asphalt. The lights burn his eyes.

The yellow tape comes into view. The police are back, swarming the scene, leaving the small alley more populous than last time. There’s arguing. Yelling. The rustle of evidence bags. Ryan recognizes one of the policemen standing in the perimeter, hat against his chest, staring despondently toward one of the legs that are visible around the corner. The pant leg is stained with blood.

Ryan’s attention is caught by a shadow to his right. He approaches. Shane is bracing himself against a wall, his head resting back onto the bricks, his face underlit by the flashing lights. Ryan stops as Shane’s head lulls to the side and looks at him. His eyes are unfamiliar. Cold.

Shane pushes off of the wall. He steps over the barrier and moves toward Ryan much faster than Ryan walks to meet him. Ryan finds his gait faltering. The confidence he had felt begins to wither. _Does Shane know?_ The nagging voice inside his head prods at him. _He knows. He has to know._

Instead, as Ryan stops to stand in front of Shane, the taller man gathers him into a hug. Ryan’s hands hover over Shane’s back for a moment, unsure if he’s still dreaming. The grip is tight around him, the smell of Shane very present. He slowly comes to terms with reality, placing his hands carefully on Shane’s shoulder blades.

“I’m going to kill that bastard.” Shane’s voice is broken with grief. Ryan feels hot tears on his neck. He holds Shane tighter. “I almost got him today. I _almost_ got him, but I was too fucking pathetic to do it.”

“You aren’t pathetic.” Ryan murmurs, his voice quiet. “You’re not… you did _good_ , Shane. You’re good.”

Shane shakes his head. He slowly recedes. Ryan can’t stand the look on his face, so crestfallen. “He killed Drew, man.” The words are hardly audible.

“I’m sorry.” Ryan tries. He feels his own cheeks grow wet. The apology stutters on his tongue. “I’m so sorry, Shane.”

“It isn’t your fault.” Shane pats his shoulder, his hand lingering, offering a sad smile. “Thanks for being here, Ry. Thank you.”

“What else are friends for?” Ryan doesn’t miss the irony there. He smiles back. “My door’s always open, buddy. Anytime you need to drop in.”

“I’ll take you up on that.” Shane’s fingers squeeze Ryan’s shoulder, a comfort.

Ryan wants to tell him. But he can’t. 

"Great."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this is seeming sort of fragmented but i'm hoping it still makes sense! both the boys are having a rough time right now.


	12. [Day Six: Shane.]

He knows he should call beforehand, for manners’ sake. But the gesture is lost in the state of his mind, all abstract and undefined. 

The day has been as much of a blur as he had expected it to be. He has forgotten the Toolbox countless times, even with a written reminder on the back of his hand. He’s receded into his car several times, just needing a break. Not wanting to look at those pictures anymore. Not wanting to think about Drew laying out on a slab. Bouncing Marge’s calls so that he doesn’t hear anything about it. He isn’t ready. The families get grace periods, he deserves one too. 

Instead of driving his normal route home, to his small place with his broken window, he turns onto Ryan’s street, parks in the small lot across the road next to Allan’s. The street lamps are just flickering on in intervals of one minute as he closes his door. The car chirps as he presses the lock button on his key fob, fast-walking across the street. 

The stairwell is cramped, more so now than it is in Shane’s memory, back before their recent reunion at Allan’s. With every step he takes, his doubt rises, even though he’s done this before. Just a few days ago, he was in this exact position. It’s different, now that he’s lost Drew, and he’s strung out from grief and lack of sleep and an overwhelming urge to lock himself in a bar and drink himself unconscious.

Ryan said he’d be here. As a support, as a comfort, and if Shane is ever to bypass his pride and take an offer like this, it is now.

He knocks once on the door, maybe as a way of distancing himself from what he’s doing (searching for help). Ryan answers within seconds, before Shane’s confidence can wither. He bounces up and down on the balls of his feet, even after the door opens, even after Ryan smiles at him. Even after Ryan’s smile disappears and the shorter man begins to bite his cheek. 

“What’s up?” He leans on the door frame, the jamb shifting in its unwieldy foundations. “You look… are you okay?”

“I’m good.” Shane crosses his arms over his chest, his jacket rubbing together in the worst way. He doesn’t seem to believe that. “Just… need to talk through some things. And you said I could…”

Before he can finish, Ryan is taking his wrist in his warm palm and tugging him inside. The musty loneliness of the hallway is replaced instantly with the smell of coffee and the yellow light from a lamp in the corner of the bedroom. 

“I’m so glad you came,” Ryan pushes him down to sit on the bed, messily made in a panic. Shane looks down as a warm mug is placed in his palms. “I was getting nervous. Watching the news. You just look more and more tired. It’s a time bomb, you know? Sleep debt and… stuff.”

“Sleep debt?” Shane rolls his eyes, “You sound like our middle school health teacher, man.”

Ryan pulls a chair from the kitchen into the bedroom, sitting down and crossing his ankles. “Just looking out for you. As a friend.”

Shane considers that. He looks down into his cup. “I don’t have many of those, these days.”

He can hear Ryan take a deep breath. He shifts his hands, letting the coffee swirl around the interior. 

“You know…” he begins, pressing his lips together as he thinks of his words. “I’ve been thinking a lot, over the past few days. I’ve spent a lot of time awake, even though I’m exhausted. I’m sick from looking at all these… all this gore. It would be easy to quit, you know?”

Ryan hums, catching Shane’s attention. “You  _ should  _ quit. Look at you. You’re burning several candles at several ends.”

“Yeah, I was thinking about it for a long time. Because… man, I  _ hate  _ this fucking job. I hate… getting calls and emails and… just surrounding myself in blood. I feel like I’m drowning every morning when I have to put that dumb jacket on.” Shane rests the mug on his leg, pressing his fingertips against his temple. He closes his eyes, “I’m not built for pressure. I mean, maybe if the deadlines are just  _ paper _ , you know? Not lives.”

“I can’t imagine,” Ryan says softly. 

“I… I came here tonight because I can’t… my place is full of pictures of evidence,” Shane brings the mug to his lips. “I can’t escape it, dude. It follows me everywhere. Here, with you, is the only place I’m safe.”

Ryan only stares at him from his chair. Silence settles, heavy. 

Shane holds his hand out, like an apology, “I know this is so fragmented, I’m so sorry - “

“Don’t apologize, Shane.”

“I just keep thinking about the last time I saw Drew.” Shane lets out a breath. “I got pissed, and I yelled at him, and all he wanted was to redeem himself. And I  _ let  _ him. I let him go unaccompanied.”

“You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.” Ryan sounds closer. A hand falls on his shoulder, keeping him from floating off. 

“Fucking… psycho-killer on the loose with brute strength and a knife, and I let the kid go to a dark alley by himself.” Shane places his hand on top of Ryan’s. “I’m supposed to be a professional, someone who  _ knows  _ what to do. And I just let him go.”

“He’s an adult.”

“Not _trained_. Not trained yet.” Shane lets his hand drop. He takes a long sip of his coffee. “I was, like… I was telling myself I’d apologize to him later.”

“It isn’t your fault.” The bed dips as Ryan sits next to him. Shane leans closer to him. “Please hear me when I say that. It isn’t your fault.”

“I know that.” Shane thinks for a moment. “I  _ know  _ that.” He has to convince himself that it is the truth. “I know that.”

It takes a few minutes, and a few more repetitions, for his voice to sound sure. For him to mean it. 

Ryan waits patiently for him to mean it. 


	13. [Day Six: Ryan.]

“I know that.”

Ryan watches Shane contemplate that. He has been for a few minutes, murmuring to himself in between sips of coffee. Shane’s leaning so close to him, their shoulders pressed together. Ryan wonders if the hotness of his skin registers through his shirt, and if it does, he wonders if Shane can identify guilt from his temperature alone. He searches for courage to comfort his friend through his dry throat, through the clamminess of his hands. 

Shane is curled in on himself, gripping the mug in his hands as if he will shatter if he lifts one finger from the warmed ceramic. In no way does this look like a man who is aware of the danger he could be in. 

So Ryan relaxes. 

“How’s the, uh…” Shane’s hand comes to rest on Ryan’s leg, bringing him back to the present. He glances down to the contact before making eye contact like a human being. “The article you were working on? Any luck on that?”

“No, I… um.” Ryan smiles, only to buy time. 

He considers a few certain possibilities to this conversation.

One: He tells Shane that he is finished with the article [that never existed in the first place]. He tells Shane that he turned it in, but oops! They have to edit it for awhile. Might not even make it to the website. This may cause Shane to ask questions, maybe ask to read it. Ryan will refuse. Shane will press. Ryan will be a mess, and raise suspicion. Maybe Shane will look up the Maitland website, look at the staff page. See that Ryan is no longer listed. Ask him about it the next day. Ryan will flounder. Shane will connect the dots from Thomas Maitland’s murder and Ryan. Ryan will get arrested. Ryan will probably get the death penalty. Shane will not be his friend anymore, which is a fate worse than death. 

Two: He tells Shane that he isn’t finished with the article [that never existed in the first place]. He says he got distracted and the unfinished document is lost in his hard drive somewhere. Shane might ask what the due date is. Ryan will have to come up with something on the spot. A date, which he will have to remember if the topic ever comes up again. Shane might ask to read it, even if it isn’t done. See Scenario One.

Three: He tells Shane that he doesn’t have to write the article [that never existed in the first place] anymore because he doesn’t work there anymore. He doesn’t have to say he was fired - he might even relate to Shane by saying how unhappy he was at his job. Shane might hug him. Shane might understand him. Shane will never find out what happened, their similarities will be restored. He will be disconnected entirely from the Maitland and its late Head Editor, Thomas Maitland. He will not have to remember dates or deadlines. He will not have to fabricate stories about his job. It is perfect. It is as close to the truth as he can manage. 

“I left that job,” Ryan shrugs. Shane’s eyebrows raise. “Yeah… I, uh… I wasn’t happy, you know? I’ve been there a few years, it just became a chore.”

“I get that, man.” Shane wraps an arm around him, hand moving to rest on his hip. Ryan grows stiff, though his attempts to smother a smile are futile. The taller man jostles him, the bed springs creak. “I’m happy for you, Ry. You’re much braver than I am.”

“Eh,” Ryan leans into the embrace, prolonging it before Shane can even attempt to break it. “Your job is life and death. Mine was just… like, gossip.”

“It was more than that. You know it.” Shane sighs, slowly extracting his arm. Ryan immediately grows cold. “God. I can’t imagine. When’d you leave?”

“Hm?” Ryan looks over at him. He hadn’t expected further questioning. 

“When’d you leave? Did you put in a two-week, or?” Shane’s a naturally curious guy. It’s his job, it’s his nature. Of course he’ll ask questions. It’s harmless.

“Nah.” Ryan’s in fight or flight. “I didn’t legally have to… uh, because… uh, it wasn’t in the handbook.”

“Right, right.” Shane nods, his eyes zoning out on a piece of carpet. He bites the inside of his cheek. “Are you sure? Like they won’t pester you for something else?”

“Yeah, pretty sure.” Ryan laughs, clearly strained. “If they do… I figure I can handle it.”

“Right. ‘Course,” Shane nods, chuckling along with him. He reaches across Ryan and places his now-empty mug on the nightstand with a thunk. Ryan’s eyes follow Shane as he retreats. “Man. I’d give anything to join you in unemployment.”

“So do it.”

“I’d have a two-week. God, I’m in the middle of these fuckin’ serial murders. I’ll have an infinity-week to finish, at least until we get this guy.” Shane rubs his eyes and falls back onto the bed, body bouncing for a few seconds. Ryan reluctantly joins him. “They’re saying they need to get the FBI involved.”

“The FBI.” It isn’t a question. Ryan suddenly can’t hear his heartbeat in his ears. Only ticking.

“Yeah, man.” Shane’s hands are glued to his face at this point, just taking deep breaths. He’s clearly trying to keep from crying. But Ryan can only focus on himself and how his heart has stopped. “I don’t want to meet FBI agents, you know? That’s… so much bigger than me. Than what I do.”

_I can trick the people around here. The FBI is going to find me within seconds._

“Like, I want ‘em to catch this guy. Clearly we’re not making any headway until we get those fuckin’ surveillance tapes, and the quality is going to be terrible when we do… I’m just… I’m just selfish.”

“You’re not selfish,” Ryan chokes out.

_Surveillance cameras. I forgot about the stupid surveillance cameras._

Shane uncovers his eyes. “You’re too kind to me, Ry.”

“Give me a reason not to be.” Ryan’s eyes are teary. He smiles. The weight of his actions are pushing him down into the bed, crushing his ribs. Shane smiles back at him. 

“You’re a great friend, Ryan.” Shane pats his chest. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Ryan doesn’t answer. Instead, he struggles to sit up. “You should stay the night.”

“I was about to ask,” Shane exhales gratefully. “I can’t stand my place, right now. Filled with pictures of death.”

“Can’t guarantee this place is much better.”

Shane laughs and bends to tug his shoes off while Ryan turns to grab some pajamas for his tall friend. He doesn’t mention that he wasn’t joking. That would be inappropriate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh things are about to get very serious........... i'm so excited


	14. [Day Seven: Shane.]

Shane wakes up early. _Early_ early. Roughly four in the morning. 

The excitement for the day fills his body like static. Even the unfiltered exhaustion is placed on the back burner for now. The technological county geniuses are going to crack the case wide open. And Shane will be damned if he isn’t going to be there when it happens.

Ryan is fast asleep in the queen bed beside him, conservative with his limb distribution, hugging himself close under the covers. He takes a minute to recognize his surroundings: the smell of coffee, month old paint, and the customary cigarette aroma that wafts in from the balconies into the rooms through the cracks in the windows. Shane is reluctant to call it homey. That would be assumptive of him. 

Shane rolls out of bed, straightening out his pants and dress shirt, twisted from sleep. His job doesn’t really require much of a professional appearance anyway. He stumbles to his shoes, discarded on Ryan’s side of the bed, sitting on the ground to pull them on. He runs back around to his side of the bed to grab his glasses. 

He leans over the bed, one hand to keep himself balanced and the other to straighten his tie. He realizes he might be much to close to Ryan’s face, but his friend opens an eye and smiles anyways.

“This is weird,” he says oddly, shaking his head. “Sorry. I just… have to go to work, now. So.”

“Right,” Ryan nods, opening his other eye. He smiles wider, stretching. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

“See you later?” Shane doesn’t understand this awkwardness he’s cultivated. But Ryan’s smile is a comfort. Ryan is a comfort. He doesn’t analyze it further.

“I’ll be right here. You can come back, if you want.” Ryan tries to shrug while curled into himself. It doesn’t work. “Always.”

“You’re gonna eat those words.” Shane groans as he pushes himself back to stand. He pats his pockets for his keys. “Be safe, buddy. Be back in a few hours, probably.”

“Take your time,” Ryan says, turning back over and covering his head with the blanket. His muffled voice is barely audible, “I think the coffee pot’s on, if you want any.”

“Thanks.”

When Shane arrives at the Brains’ office, he ignores the _walk of shame_ comments from Louis. Louis is bent under the desk, plugging in all of his chargers and hard drives, none of which make any sense to Shane, who simply yawns as a hello. 

“Morning,” Louis says, sitting up on his ankles. “You ready?”

"Where's Eddy?"

"Back here!" Eddy calls from his desk. "Just ignore me for a bit. Gotta get this done."

"Loud and clear," Shane salutes before grimacing. "Sorry.”

Shane takes his place behind Louis’ chair as he logs into his various pieces of technology. Time is moving much too fast for him to comprehend. Every time he blinks, Louis is setting up yet another rig. He doesn’t understand - they won’t need _all_ of these, right?

Suddenly, Louis is staring at him, all of his screens and laptops laid out on the desk around him, waiting for the call. 

“I know nothing about technology,” Shane says slowly.

“Okay… well,” Louis looks to the sky for a moment, almost a prayer. Shane rolls his eyes. “So… luckily for us, both the systems at the bar and the store are NVR security camera systems, which means network video recorder - “

“Nevermind, I’m bored,” Shane moves his finger in a circle, gesturing to _move it along, buddy_. “Skip forward. Can you get the footage?”

Louis’ glare nearly melts Shane’s glasses to his nose. “Yes. They both recently upgraded to WiFi cameras instead of battery-powered. I just had to download a Reolink application to my PC and, uh, get the IP address. And the owner has a PIN, so… that’ll be important.”

“Sounds easy,” Shane nods once. He can feel Louis looking at him, but he ignores it. 

“Sure.” Louis unfolds the piece of paper on the desk. He does a violent double take, squinting at the handwriting. “What does this even say, dude?”

Shane grabs the arm of Louis’ chair, rolling him aside. “I’ll type it in, idiot.”

“Okay, moron.”

Shane swallows a grin as he types in the digits. The screen splits into four sections, filling with compartments and numbers that immediately overwhelm Shane’s vision. He stumbles away, throwing his hands up in defeat. “That’s the end of my technological contribution.”

“Congrats,” Eddy says from his dark corner, adjusting his headphones so that he can listen. Shane always forgets that he’s back there. Louis snorts and rolls back to the middle of the desk, fingers poised to work magic.

Shane stares at the screen, his fingers pressed against his lips. The inside of Allan’s bar is always dimly lit. The light fixtures are unreliable. The grainy videos are hardly a good enough quality to offer any insight. All two angles of the main room are indistinguishable. Everything is dark, save for the over-exposed TV screens visible in the corners of the room. The alleyway angles are much clearer. Louis squints, shaking his head, nearly ashamed at the technology. 

“David… um, when I talked to him. David said Sasha Trahan entered the bar around eleven at night,” Shane points at the screen. The gritty letters in the bottom corner read _5:55 PM._

“Gotcha.” Louis clicks a box in the lower right hand corner, typing in _11:00:00 PM_ inside. The quality only gets fuzzier. He presses the left key, fast-forwarding. Louis clicks his tongue, “I pray for the day we make high-definition affordable.”

Shane hums, leaning over Louis’ shoulder. The seats along the bar begin to fill up on the screen. A man and a woman settle in over against a wall, in the corner. A man in a familiar black t-shirt sits in the middle of the bar, slouching. Shane stares intently at the door, perking up as soon as he sees a flash of bright orange. 

“Stop,” Shane says, moving Louis’ hand off of the keyboard. Louis grumbles. “I recognize that color. That’s Sasha Trahan.”

“Alright.” Louis leans back in his chair, arms crossed over each other, watching intently. “Geez, that’s abrasive.”

“She was an abrasive person, I hear.” Shane scratches his eyebrow. “The bartender, there, “ he points to the broad-shouldered man, “said she wasn’t my biggest fan.”

“She looks pretty angry.”

Shane looks back to blurry-Sasha. Her elbow seems to slip out from under her. 

“Can you… I don’t know… is there audio on this?” Shane almost feels bad asking. 

“Yeah, actually.” Louis sounds pretty content. He clicks a triangle button that in no way shows its use. The speakers hum to life. “This audio is a lot better than the video, I’ll say that much.”

 _“..._ _the biggest problem with our… democratic system, or whatever.”_ _Sasha’s head is craned to look at the television._

“God, she was so wasted.” Eddy is suddenly beside Shane, hands on his hips, lips pursed. “Overserving, man.”

“David said he didn’t serve her anything,” Shane says quietly. He’s trying to focus on what they’re saying. 

_“Coroner, Sasha,” David is shaking his head, reaching over and taking the glass from the familiar blob beside Sasha. “The guy’s a coroner, not a fuckin’ car owner.”_

“Shit, they’re talking about you,” Louis turns around in his chair, face illuminated with mischief.

_“Maybe someone should, like, kill that guy.” Sasha says._

Shane raises his eyebrows, opening his mouth to express light-hearted concern, but the man beside Sasha slams his hand down on the bar. It makes a sickening crack, even through the questionable speakers. Louis jumps.

 _The man looks down to his hand, confused, before looking up to David._ _“Can I have another, please?”_

Shane closes his mouth. His skin grows tight. He knows that voice. He knows that shirt, he knows that voice. 

“I bet that’s the guy,” Eddy shakes his head. “Violent asshole.”

“Yeah, for sure. Let’s see when he leaves.”

“Um - “ Shane chokes on his words. He watches Louis scroll through the timeline.

_Sasha stands. The man follows. Ryan follows._

“Stop, stop, stop,” Eddy drags Louis’ hand away from the mouse. “Look, she’s going towards the alley.”

“So is he,” Louis adds. “Poor girl, you know?”

Shane’s forehead grows wet. He backs up, leaning against the back table, eyes locked to the screen. 

Shane watches as Ryan follows Sasha out of the bar. He watches as she leans against the brick wall to vomit beside the stacked tower of cardboard boxes. He watches as Ryan grabs her shoulder and drags her away from the back entrance door, back away from the back light fixture, into the dark. Shane covers his mouth with his hand, not blinking. He can’t see much, but he knows what the culmination of the fight in the dark is. He’s dreamed about it many times. 

His hearing is fuzzy. He can barely hear Ryan panting, Ryan cursing, Ryan saying sorry before running out of frame. 

“Jesus,” Louis says, clicking the _X_ in the corner. He goes back into the application, back to the home screen. Shane is drowning on land. “Let’s take a look at the store footage. It’ll be bad quality but we can send out screen caps. I figure if you know the guy, you’d recognize him. Even if he’s just a few pixels.”

Shane doesn’t move. He watches as Louis struggles to plug in the hardware store’s IP address. The split screen is called up, two of the screens bathed in fluorescent white and yellow, two of the screens nearly completely black. 

“When did the bartender murder happen, do you know?”

“Around seven.” Shane’s voice is graveled, dragged forcefully into a realization that he doesn’t want to have.

Shane watches Ryan, fully lit, enter Ace Hardware. He watches him grab hunting knives from the clearance shelves. He watches him grab a box of latex gloves. Shane watches him buy them. Shane watches him go out into the parking lot where David is waiting. David follows Ryan into the dark.

Shane can’t breathe. He slowly stands, wobbling. Eddy moves to catch him before he falls, frowning. Shane jerks out of his hold, almost backing into a file cabinet. “I need to… uh. I need to go.”

“You okay, man?” Louis raises an eyebrow, standing. “Thought you were _used_ to this shit.”

“Me too,” Shane manages a breathy, insecure laugh before stumbling toward the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo boy. 
> 
> it's time.


	15. [Day Seven: Ryan.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi this is a long one i'm sorry.

Ryan is rubbing his eyes, hunched over the coffee machine as it sputters to life, when the door opens. The hinge creaks. The carpet groans. 

“Shane?” He walks to the edge of the tile, peering around the divider. “Hey, man. That didn’t take too long.”

Shane is standing in the shadow by the door, arms hanging limply by his sides, staring at him. He doesn’t move for a long time, looking from Ryan’s eyes to his shoulders, down to his hands and up to his eyes again. Watching, trying to understand. A horribly anxious feeling takes hold in the bottom of Ryan’s stomach, sweeping away the tiredness of six in the morning. The coffee machine beeps. 

“Shane?” He tries out a chuckle, just to see how it feels. The noise bounces off of Shane and comes back, much louder. “Man, you look… are you okay?”

“Um.” Shane blinks, shaking his head slowly. He seems like an alien that just stepped off his ship, getting used to the local language. “Sorry. Uh.” 

Ryan feels like he’s witnessing floodgates open. He can nearly hear them clang outside his apartment, hear the gush of water escaping, crashing against the cheap wood door. Soaking through the carpet under the door. Moving slow, but with purpose. To drown him where he’s standing. 

“Do you want some coffee?” Ryan hikes a thumb over his shoulder. Shane looks like a statue. “It’s ready, if you do.”

“Um.”

Ryan shrugs and leaves him to stand in the dark hallway. He tells himself that he does this because the coffee will get cold. But he knows that if he watches Shane any longer, he’ll implode. Shane looks like Drew did in that alley. Wide-eyed. Too knowledgeable. 

With his back to the opening to the kitchen, he can hear Shane’s footsteps thudding irregularly. The water-saturated carpet squishes under his feet. The flood is up to Ryan’s bare ankles now. The water is cold. 

“Ryan.”

Ryan hums, pouring a healthy helping into his mug. He hasn’t put his pajama pants on yet, still so vulnerable in his huge shirt and boxers. He needs coffee in his system. He needs to be able to think. His thoughts are pooling in the bottom of his skull uselessly. All he can think about is Shane, how empty those eyes look.

“Ryan, can we… can we talk, buddy?”

“Yeah, of course.” He grabs a spoon to stir, turning and leaning on the counter. Shane is standing perfectly framed by the door, still observing him deeply. Ryan smiles, “You can always talk to me, friend.”

“Okay.” Shane’s head is moving up and down just barely, trying to confirm something. “Okay. Okay.”

Ryan watches as Shane moves across the kitchen, unwieldy, slumping in one of the chairs behind the island. He pulls out a notepad. Ryan watches his movement with tightly drawn eyebrows. 

“What do you need that for?” His voice is pitifully high-pitched, trying to force light-heartedness where it is completely absent. 

“Where were you last Friday?” Shane looks up at him, sitting up straight. He squares his shoulders. He isn’t wearing his jacket, but he might as well be. “The night Thomas Maitland died?”

“... Shane.” Ryan makes a face, a confused smirk. He brings his mug up to his lips, feigning nonchalance though his heart is climbing up his throat with its claws extended, “C’mon, man. What are you doing?”

“Where were you around eleven at night, last Friday, the night Thomas Maitland died?” Shane is squirming in his seat, unable to sit still. He runs a hand through his hair. He rubs his eyes. He clicks his pen. 

“What, am I a… like, a witness, or something?” Ryan chuckles. “I was… I was _here_ , Shane. I’m always here.”

“Had you quit by then?” Shane jots something down, his hands tense. 

Ryan shakes his head, “No, I… uh, I quit on Tuesday.”

“Tuesday.” Shane nods. He holds his hand over his mouth, staring at the words as if they might begin to talk. As if he wishes they would. “And… and if I reach out to the Maitland. The staff there. They’ll be willing to confirm that. Right?”

“Right. Shane, what are you doing?” Ryan takes a step forward. Shane’s head jerks upward, alarmed. Ryan frowns, setting his mug down. “Shane... “

“Where were you on Sunday?” Shane asks. His voice shakes. He clears his throat. “Around eleven at night. Can you tell me where you were Sunday night?”

“I was here - “

“What were you doing?”

Ryan throws his hands up, “I don’t fuckin’ know, man! It’s a _Sunday_ \- Like, I don’t keep a fuckin’ diary, or whatever. I was probably just here, sleeping. “

Shane clicks his pen and sets it down parallel to the red lines going down the left side of the yellow paper. He cradles his head in his hands, fingers flexing on his temples. 

“Ryan. Just stop.” Shane’s voice is muffled by his palms. He takes a long, shaky breath. “Just… _stop_ , man. I _saw_ you.”

Ryan’s smile falls. He feels the tension release. The water’s up around his knees. “What?”

“The cameras at Allan’s. They place you at the scene of Sasha Trahan’s murder.” Shane digs his fingertips into his eyes. “You left when she left. I _saw_ you, Ryan. I saw you follow that poor girl out into an alley and beat her to fucking death. With your hands.”

Ryan’s eyes grow wet, his face warm. “She… I didn’t…” Ryan crosses his arms over his chest. 

Shane finally works up the courage to raise his eyes. They’re bloodshot, his face damp. Ryan can’t bear it, so he looks away. He looks toward the window, trying to calm his breathing.

“You need to turn yourself in.” Shane looks tired. 

A sob breaks through Ryan’s lips. He tries to smother it with his palm. He shakes his head. “Shane, I can’... I can’t do that, man. I’ve… I just made a mistake, she… she was saying those terrible things about you - “

“She was _drunk_ , Ryan. And _lost._ ” Shane stands up slowly, taking his notebook in his hand. He gestures with it, “You… you really can’t be rationalizing murder… not after… I fucking _came_ over here to talk to you about all the death, my only friend… in the fucking _world_ , and _you’re_ the one who’s been doing this to me… _God_ , I was so stupid.”

“Don’t say that.” Ryan tries to slip his hands into pockets that aren’t there. “You’re not stupid… you’re not… I didn’t… I was… I don’t know, but I didn’t do _anything_ to you, I’d never hurt you.”

Shane’s mouth drops open in grief and surprise. And anger. 

“I came to you… broken up about Drew’s death, which was your doing, and you looked at me and you _lied_ to me.” The notebook disappears into his pants pocket. Ryan is glad to see it go. “You can’t possibly tell me you’d never hurt me, not with a straight face. You killed innocent people, you killed my friend, and you lied to me.” He laughs softly, resting his forehead against the nearest wall. “I can’t believe I’m _here_ right now. I can’t believe I came here…” 

Ryan blinks. “I told you it wasn’t your fault. That wasn’t a lie.”

“Clearly it was. It was _my_ fault. For not seeing you for what you are.” Shane clenches his hand into a fist before raising it, pointing at Ryan with a stern face. Ryan’s eyes cross as he stares at it. “You’re fucking unstable, Ryan. You need to turn yourself in, and you need to get _help_.”

Ryan watches him begin to walk. As if he thinks he can leave. 

“You know I can’t do that,” he whispers. A hot tear rolls off his cheek and into the ocean that’s filled his entire apartment. Up to his waist.

Shane stops before he can move into the dark hallway. He turns. “Either you turn yourself in, or I turn you in.” He starts moving again.

Ryan stays still. He knows that if he moves even one muscle, he’ll have to come to terms with the fact that he’s full of static. That he’s not in control. He wishes Shane would just leave, would run. But he doesn’t. He’s a good friend.

“If you turn me in… they’ll know we’re friends, you know.” Ryan is speaking slowly, cautiously. “You’ll… uh, just incriminate yourself.”

“It’s not about _me_ , Ryan.” Shane stops his course to the door, circling back around and into the kitchen. He’s so close. “I need you to understand that.”

“It’s always been about you.” Ryan nods slowly. His head grows light, like a balloon that’s about to float away. “Always.”

“I just…” Shane puts his hands over his face for a second before pulling them back to brace on his hips. He wets his lips with his tongue. Frustrated. Full of adrenaline. Standing in front of a murderer. Ryan doesn’t know when he started calling himself that. “I don’t understand why you did this, man. To yourself. To _me_.”

“I didn’t do _anything_ to you - “

“You did. You _did._ ” Shane is an unstoppable force. “You let me come into your house… let me share your space...  let me sleep here and talk through all the stress _you_ were causing me.”

“That’s what friends - “

“And one thing I can’t _fucking_ wrap my head around is why you think you did me a service.” One of his hands falls slack against his leg. “Four people, dead because of you. Why?”

“She said someone should _kill_ you, Shane - “

“Then what about Maitland?” Shane looks around, searching for a place to sit, a place to cool off, a place to control his nausea. He picks Ryan’s bed. Ryan watches him sink down onto the mattress. The springs creak. “Tell me about that. _Please,_ Ryan, I’m here now and I need to know. Before I walk out that door, because you can bet I’m never going to talk to you again.”

“Shane…” His name comes out in a whine. All of his fears are appearing faster than he can process them. “You can’t - “

“I can.” Shane cards his fingers, rough, through his own hair. Pulling. “Thomas Maitland.”

Ryan’s ears feel hot. “He allowed that story to go out about you, Shane. That fuckin’ two page think piece about you… about you and the _money_ , and I couldn’t...  I can’t let that happen again, you know? I just wanted to stop that from happening.”

Shane allows the words to sink in. He nods, thoughtfully, fingers on his chin. “About the bribes?”

“Yeah.” Ryan shifts on his feet. “About the bribes.”

“I never took the bribes, Ryan.”

“I know that.”

“I never took the money.” Shane blinks, “You killed over lies? That’s not a great excuse, Ryan. ”

“Because… well, because they think you did.” Ryan frowns. When Shane says it like that, it makes it all sound like it was for nothing. It couldn’t be for nothing. “Right? Everyone thinks you _did_ take the money.”

“Since when do I care what they think?” Shane sounds defeated. “I don’t care. I’ve never cared, bud.”

“Well, I do.”

Shane opens his mouth to answer, but he has nothing. He is completely dumbfounded. Ryan feels his resolve sink down his throat. He looks at his friend. His best friend. 

The white noise of the apartment is unbearable. Ryan tries again, “People like to… to try to make stuff out of nothing. Coroners… I guess, it’s fun to hear about coroners not doing their jobs because they… you do important work. But… but never you. I can’t let that happen.”

“You’re fucking insane,” Shane whispers. 

“No. No, I’m not.” Ryan takes a step forward. His legs are full of static. “I’m not insane, man. Don’t say that.”

“You killed people… what, to protect me? From stuff that practically comes with the job?” The tall man crosses his ankles, bracing his elbows on his knees. Leaning forward, squinting at Ryan like he’s never seen the man before. It hurts. “You thought you could stop these things from happening? These things always happen.”

“You keep saying that like I had a choice.”

Shane raises his eyebrows. He is tired. Ryan has known this. But now, it is ever so clear. “What are you _talking_ about?”

“I just! Stop looking at me like that. I just…” Ryan looks down to his feet. The water is gone. The carpet is dry. “I hear these people talking about you like that and I just… I lose all my control and I can’t get it back until… like, later.” 

“You need professional help, man.” Shane’s voice sounds gruff. Unfamiliar. “I mean it.”

“I can’t…”

“You have to.”

“I just want this to be _over_ ,” Ryan mutters. The air goes still. 

When Ryan lifts his eyes, Shane doesn’t seem to be feeling anything. He wishes Shane would smile. “It’s never going to be over, Ry. This is you, now.”

Time stops. Maybe. If it had, Ryan wouldn’t have to worry anymore. He wishes it had.

Ryan is not stupid. He has understood that his actions have consequences, that his actions affect the people around him. But he is also under the impression that these are just his actions, rather than a reflection of himself. It was all done. He’d moved on. He was hoping that Shane would be on his team. Now he realizes that was silly. 

Ryan opens the drawer to his right, keeping his eyes on his tall friend. His tired friend. His best friend in the world. “Why did you say that?”

Shane covers his face with his hands. “Ryan… _someone_ had to say it. You don’t have many other people you talk to, I figure. You’re like me.”

“Why’d you _say_ that?” Ryan asks, louder, telling him to look. Shane moves, his head turning upwards. He seems prepared to fold, to leave with a shallow apology, until he focuses back to Ryan. To what he’s holding. He becomes blank.

"Oh." The air leaves Shane’s chest. 

"Can you stand up, please?" Ryan adjusts his grip on the handle of the knife. Shane is staring at it.

"I’m not going to do that." Shane is clearly trying to figure out what he’ll do next. He glances toward the dark hallway, looking over his exits. He has two viable ones. But the window is locked. And the door isn’t.

"I need you to stand up.” 

"Alright," Shane nods, eyes glistening..

For a moment, Ryan wonders if this is the only possible outcome. He wonders if he can throw the knife away and convince Shane to stay, to calm down, to stop crying. But he can’t let Shane go. He knows, even as Shane pushes himself onto his feet, hands shaking at his sides. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Shane says. He doesn’t sound very convincing. 

The clock is back, suddenly. The ticking is back between his ears, loud, rewiring his reasoning skills. He can’t feel his hands. He’s made it this far. The alarm hasn’t sounded. Maybe… maybe after _this_ , he’ll be done. This is all he has left.

Ryan crosses the room in five hurried strides, before Shane can think to run. He wraps his free fingers, warm from his mug, in Shane’s collar, dragging him down to the rough carpet. It is a difficult feat - Shane has at least a whole foot advantage in height. Shane grunts as his back hits the carpet, heavy. He grabs for the knife. Ryan knocks his hand away, pinning Shane’s wrist to the ground with his forearm, stepping on his other palm to keep him from fighting. “Stop fighting,” he murmurs.

Every time Ryan has found himself in this position, it has been easy. He’s lost all of his morals, all of his control, and everything would be done within minutes. Within seconds. No effort required. 

But this is different. It’s doomed from the start. 

Shane knows Ryan, and vice versa. Ryan has seen these eyes through every emotion imaginable, and to see them disappointed and frightened under his own hands is impossibly difficult to wrestle with. No matter how much Ryan disagrees, what Shane has said has gotten under his skin. About how much he’s hurt his friend in the coming days. 

Ryan raises his hand, raises the knife. At least he won’t hurt anymore. 

“Ryan, please.” Shane has relaxed against the floor, staring up at him, his hands pinned. His breath is heavy. Ryan is endlessly surprised that he hasn’t tried to scream. The walls are thin. His rent is cheap. Shane knows this. 

“Stop. Stop it.” Ryan’s hand remains in the air. So does the knife. “I have to do this.”

“You can’t kill me, man.” Shane attempts a smile. “You can’t do it. You did all this for me, didn’t you? What was the point?”

Ryan frowns. He glances at the knife. He doesn’t want to see Shane bleed. That would break him. More than he’s already been broken. But he has to do something. 

He tosses the knife aside on the hard carpet. It thuds as it rolls across the room, clattering against the metal vent. Shane lets out a sigh, watching it rest in the slight amount of sun filtering through the blinds. His relief is short lived, stopping by the time Ryan leans over him, his forearm tight across his throat, pushing. Choking. 

“I’m sorry…” Ryan says quietly. His eyes blur, “I’m _so_ sorry.”

Shane tries to speak. He cannot. 

Ryan waits for his control to go. Something to make everything easier. For him to black out, like he normally does. But it never comes. His hands are _his hands._ He can feel Shane’s throat, hard and warm, against his leg. He can feel the strain. He keeps thinking about the future. That’s never been a worry before. He wonders where he’ll put Shane’s body afterwards, how he’ll get him down the stairs at any time of night. Maybe he can pretend that Shane is drunk or hungover on the way down. Though he’s not sure how he’d gather all those limbs… 

Ryan comes back from his thoughts just as his leg is knocked out from under him. He tumbles onto the ground, surprised by two distinct things. One, that he is still in his underwear, as his knees scrape against the carpet. Two, that Shane is no longer under him. 

He hears the stuttered rustling of something - someone - scrambling across starch-stiff carpet and toward the door. He hears Shane escaping. 

Ryan is on his feet in seconds, chasing. Shane fumbles with the door, light spilling into the dark hallway as soon as he manages to get it open. He can’t be able to breathe well. He shouldn’t even be _conscious_. Shane has always been a fighter. 

The clock gets louder, faster, with every step Shane takes away from the apartment, towards the stairs. 

“Shane, man.” Ryan says, exasperated, as he follows. He wraps an arm around the tall man’s waist. Everything is going fuzzy. “C’mon back into the apartment.”

Shane can’t speak. Ryan put a lot of weight on the man’s throat - it’s amazing that he isn’t brain dead. Or dead entirely. He fights with everything he has - clawing at Ryan’s hand that grips his shirt, trying to push forward towards the stairs. Shane flails his arms. A fist goes rogue. It clips Ryan’s jaw. 

 _Then_ everything turns off. A switch is flipped. He is thrown into the passenger seat, and something else takes the reigns. He is thankful.

Ryan [rather, his instinct] throws Shane across the room. He rolls, like a doll, to rest beside the bed. Shane wheezes, trying to breathe. Ryan frowns, closing and locking the door. He keeps his back to Shane, pressing his hot forehead against the cold wood of the door, filling his lungs with a much needed deep breath. He figures he has time, a few minutes to rest. Shane can’t breathe well, he’s weak.

A click pierces the air. Through the buzz of the apartment, the noise of morning, the hum of the air conditioner. 

Ryan slowly turns. The carpet in front of the door groans. Again.

His eyes focus on the scene in front of him. Shane is laying on his side, arms straight in front of him, holding the gun that he used to shoot at Ryan in the alley. Ryan stares at it, blankly. His nerves have been drowned, his emotions fried - well, all but one. Anger.

Ryan frowns disapprovingly, “Did you reload that?”

Shane’s eyebrows draw together. Confused. 

“You shot at me. Like, seven times in that alley a couple’a days ago. Right? Wasn’t that all you had?” He takes tentative steps, in case he’s wrong. He kneels next to Shane after a few moments of not being fired on, not being shot. Shane looks at him with wide eyes. Shane pulls the trigger. It dry fires. Ryan plucks the gun from Shane’s loose fingers and tosses it across the room. It clatters against the wall, thudding next to the knife. “I thought so.”

He frowns and pushes himself to his feet with a groan. He walks to the knife, his last resort - his normal brain tells him that he could finish choking Shane, that he’s too weak to fight back. But his normal brain isn’t in control anymore.

Ryan tucks the knife handle into his pocket, keeping his hands free to flip Shane onto his stomach. Shane wheezes in protest, though his breaths are getting shorter and shorter. He hums, a few attempts at objection.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t look at your face when I… uh.” Ryan shakes his head, patting Shane’s back. He isn’t sure how to go about this. He straddles Shane’s back carefully. He wonders if he could wait until the tall man eventually suffocated from lack of oxygen. But that would be cruel.

He lines up the tip of the knife to the right of Shane’s spine, where he guesses some important organs would be. Near the middle. He listens to his breathing for a moment. Even through the static and the rain, he still is reluctant. His one friend, only friend in the world. 

“God.” Ryan sets the weapon down on Shane’s back, cradling his head in his hands. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this.”

Shane coughs. _Then don’t._

“I have to. I _have_ to.” He reaches out and runs his fingers through Shane’s hair for the first and last time. “I… you know, I feel like I should tell you I love you.”

Shane’s back tenses. He moves his head. Maybe to reason with him. One last attempt to no avail. But his voice is gone. 

Ryan picks the knife up again. He grasps it with both hands, tight and firm, above his target. His arms lock, and he draws back. “I love you, Shane.”

The clock sounds, loud and shrill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeahhhhhhh i procrastinated writing this chapter because i knew it was going to be rough - i'm sorry. but ! at least, the next chapter will be up in a few seconds! love you so much, we're almost to the end.
> 
> as always, this is entirely not read over by me or anyone else before posting. i have written this in bursts around the hours of 2-4 am where my brain is broken. it is likely that there are many mistakes - please be gentle with me, i am sleepy.


	16. [Day Eight: Shane.]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is one of my better chapters, i think. 
> 
>    
> p.s. get it!!! it's 'cause he's dead now. and he didn't have much of an eighth day. ha.   
>  
> 
> p.p.s. sorry for anyone whose hopes got raised - i just thought this was an interesting gimmick :(


	17. [Day Eight: Ryan.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the end - thanks for reading i love u

Ryan sits on his bed. 

He sits with his back against the cold wall, avoiding the indent in the blankets that Shane left the morning before. He can just barely see the back of Shane’s head over the side of the mattress, over the ridges of the wrinkled comforter. The puddle of blood has stopped, the current stopped flowing down the tall man’s sides and onto the carpet. His hair is still mussed from Ryan’s fingers. Ryan sniffles.

Ever since the clock went off, every siren that has screamed its way past his window has created a vacuum in his stomach. Every voice across the street makes his heart stop beating, makes him stop breathing for just long enough to hear, to see if they’re talking about him. To see if they’re pointing at his apartment, his window. At Shane’s car parked in the designated spot. Whispering. Saying, “ _Finally_ . _Someone_ did something about that.” It makes Ryan feel sick. 

Shane’s phone rang many times in the past few hours. At first, there was a period of silence five hours long. One from someone named _Marge_. He doesn’t know if that’s Shane’s aunt or something. Marge called six times. She sent eleven text messages. Ryan has the phone out on the comforter next to him. It’s a miracle he remembers the combination - it’s tens of digits long. Shane liked to spite technology. 

Ryan sits, scrolling through the messages with his legs tucked to his chest, chin resting on his knee. He smiles at some of them. Marge seems sweet, whomever she is. She likes to call Shane “Madej” a lot. Ryan had forgotten this - this sort of communication. Friends, family, checking in, asking how he is. 

A couple officers call early in the morning. Asking if he [Shane] is okay. Telling him that they have conclusive fingerprint matches. Telling him that they’re sending out the pictures from the security footage, whatever that means. Ryan considers answering, but only for moments. He listens to voicemails until the phone dies.

It’s only a matter of time before they find him. He knows this. He’s known it since he stood over Maitland in the dark, in the rain, waiting for his humanity to sink out of his body entirely. It stayed. He figures he’s finished being human, now. Ryan sits and waits, for hours that wear like years. Shane doesn’t smell like Shane anymore. 

Around nine o’clock, the sirens return. Raindrops are beginning to pelt the window, slowly at first, like an impatient guest trying to wrestle their way inside. Ryan thinks he should get dressed. He feels the hardened splatters of red on his face, his dark shirt stiff from the dried matter of the worst decision of his life. The decision that has stained his carpet. He glances back down to the pool. He grimaces and looks back to the window. The sun is retreating behind the clouds, the yellow light crawling away from Shane, removing the spotlight. 

Ryan waits for the sirens to fade, like they always do. They only grow louder. 

There is a brief second where Ryan wonders what he should do - if he should put pants on, if he should stand and offer his wrists, if he should script a speech. But he is tired and alone. He has no one to impress. He has no time to buy a rug to cover the stain in the carpet, no time to dispose of Shane or the bag of evidence in his closet. He just sits. He watches the sunshine drop behind the clouds, his room shifting from hopeful yellow to dull gray in minutes. A perfect mood for an ending. 

Ryan leans over the bed, groaning. His bones crack, settled into the position he’d stayed in for more than twenty four hours. He scoops the gun up from where it is propped, just out of Shane’s reach, against the wall. He tucks it under the blanket, sitting up straight. He folds his legs into a basket. The door is unlocked.

The footfall of a village storms up the steps, echoing metallic through the stairwell. The noise filters underneath the door. 

Ryan imagines what they’ll look like, the FBI. He doesn’t know a lot - he’s curious as to if they’ll be wearing those visors over their faces. If they’ll be wearing those thick black vests with those big guns. Maybe he isn’t so much of a threat as he thinks he may be. As Shane said he was. 

The crack of wood splintering due to forced entry is deafening. He flinches, frowning. “My door…”

The door slams into the wall. Ryan is almost excited to see them in real life. He wants to see if he still gets Miranda Rights after all he’s done.

Instead, he sees the normal blue he’s seen countless times. He recognizes the faces that surrounded Shane on the news all the time. He thinks one of their names is Stills. He isn’t sure which one. Maybe the one in the front. 

“Holy _shit_ ,” Stills (?) says as the mob of them swarm his apartment, circling around Shane. 

“Did you know him?” Ryan asks. His eyelids are heavy. 

Stills seems to swallow quite hard. “You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. Anything you say - “

“Where’s the FBI?” Ryan squints at the crowd. He counts a few weapons, though only two are pointed at him. “He said they were coming.”

“You…” An officer turns to another, questioning with her eyes if she’s allowed to answer. The other officer nods, barely. “You didn’t commit a _federal_ crime, sir. Murder is only a federal offense if you kill a federal officer.”

“He’s not a federal officer?” Ryan asks. He doesn’t point to Shane because they know who he’s talking about.

“No.”

“Oh,” Ryan nods. He bites the inside of his cheek. “That’s a shame.”

Ryan’s fingers toy with the blanket, frowning. He slips his fingers underneath. The officers around him slowly relax their shoulders, lower their weapons. He knows this, at least. He’s being cooperative. 

They seem unsure of what to do. Figures. Shane was the sleep deprived Scotch tape holding them together. “We need you to raise your hands above your head.” 

“Okay,” Ryan nods. He raises his hands, bringing them up from under the blanket. He raises the gun with them. 

“Woah, woah, woah!” The air grows tense again. The rustle of uniforms moving, bracing for impact, aiming guns that were previously at waist-level up to their chins. “Drop your weapon!”

“This was his,” Ryan says. He isn’t aiming at anyone. It hangs limply on his right thumb, against his palm. “ _My_ weapon’s still in his back. You can see it, right there.”

“Sir.”

Ryan sighs. He just wants to sleep. He twirls the gun up into his grip, slipping his index finger into its place on the trigger. He doesn’t tell them it’s empty. 

“Sir, drop your weapon!” He can hardly hear them over the rain.

“Guys, calm down.” He moves his hand. The eye of the barrel follows. He aims in the center of Stills’ chest. He anticipates a dry fire, just a catalyst to get everything done with. If they think they’re in danger, they’ll retaliate for sure. 

But he has an epiphany. 

No more. Not even to pretend. He said he was done. And he will be. 

He fires a blank at the ceiling. It rings for just a split second before he hears two other, louder, more deciding noises. He feels a warmth in his jaw first, dripping down his neck. Second, there is a distinct heat, a pain, in his temple right. It lasts for only a moment, a split second, half of a blink.

The rain stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay.... that was a rollercoaster. sometimes you need to write a bit of an angsty nightmare where you kill your characters and present terrible moral dilemmas. so thank you for joining me.
> 
> i'm so thankful for everyone who read and commented - your comments were so awesome and interesting and gave me a lot of information about what i wrote that i didn't even know... so sorry i couldn't spin this in a happy way... i love u


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